


Sang The Sun In Flight

by mudkippy, vilelithe (BroPorrim)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Bilbo Baggins, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The plot is different, They go other places, We're not doing a rehash of the entire quest step by step
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkippy/pseuds/mudkippy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroPorrim/pseuds/vilelithe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins of the Shire — late a dragon of Mordor — has been enjoying his retirement in the peaceful and boring Shire. It is here that he expects to live out the rest of his life as an underestimated and overfed hobbit, until the promise of treasure and adventure lures him from his hole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concerning Hobbits

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing left to do with this story is edit, so we'll be posting weekly, on Fridays.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo proves his worth as a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

In his exceptionally long life, Bilbo Baggins, Esq., had done battle with many fierce creatures, but none so terrifying as the stubby chestnut pony before him.

“Really, I can assure you that this is an awful idea,” Bilbo said.

The young dwarf tightened the final strap tethering Bilbo’s belongings to the pony’s back and shook his head vigorously. “We’ll go faster if you ride with me, rather than try to—” He grinned “— _hoof_ it.” A passing Dwarf — Bilbo couldn’t be bothered to remember his name — cuffed him on the head for that.

“I can keep up on foot. I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays, you know — even got as far as Frogmorton once,” Bilbo said. “I don’t mind walking.”

“Nonsense!” the Dwarf replied. “Hand me that sword. It’ll be easier to balance if you don’t have that thing on your back.”

Bilbo swatted his hand away from Orcrist. “I’ve consented to let the pony carry the rest of my things. Not this.”

“Have it your way Master Bo—” he caught himself and corrected “—Master Baggins. Now, up you get.”

Bilbo glanced around, praying for someone to extricate him from this predicament. Instead, he found twelve sets of eyes watching him. The other Dwarves apparently had nothing better to do than witness his impending humiliation, even though half of their ponies were still unsaddled. It was a small mercy that they were some distance into the forest, so at least he would not be seen by every farmer on their way into Hobbiton. “Oh, very well. Let’s get this folly over with so I can start walking.”

The dwarf nodded, a quick jerk of his head that sent his hair tumbling into his face. He mounted his pony and waved Bilbo closer. As Bilbo approached, the animal’s nostrils flared and its eyes were ringed with white. Then Kili — that was his name — lifted Bilbo by his armpits.

“You’re heavy! I’d say you’re nearly as heavy as Dwalin!” Kili grunted, struggling as he sat Bilbo down on the saddle before him. Bilbo was not even given a chance to make himself comfortable, as the pony reared and Kili toppled from the saddle, dragging Bilbo with him.

The pony danced away until Thorin caught its bridle. He walked the beast over to where his nephew sat in the mud and pulled him up. He was then rude enough to not extend the same courtesy to Bilbo.

“We travel at haste, Master Hobbit,” Thorin said, passing the reins off to Kili. “Don’t allow my sister-children to drag you into their games.” And then the damnable Dwarf was gone, off exchanging words with Gandalf and frowning at the cloudy sky.

Co-conspirator Kili offered a hand, which Bilbo took gladly. It was only after yanking, though, that Kili was able to lift him from the ground.

“You’re _heavy_!” Kili repeated dumbly, stroking the pony to soothe it. He looked Bilbo up and down, as if he thought to find hidden weights strapped to Bilbo’s ankles. “I don’t understand why.”

“Hobbits must be built of sterner stuff,” Bilbo replied, feigning confusion. “Can I walk now?”

“I don’t know, _can_ you?” Kili asked with a wry grin. Then, after a foul look from Bilbo, he added, “I suppose you’ll have to.” He pushed his hair out of his face with a dirty palm and looked at the pony glumly. “It’s odd, though. Minty is so mild-mannered. 

“Ah,” said another Dwarf, stumping past with his own saddle. “That’s the thing about these Shire-folk. All smiles and bows ’til you try to get them to do what they don’t want. Even the ponies. Is that right, Master Burglar?”

“Or near enough, Master ... Dwarf.”

“Bofur, if it pleases you, and none of that Mr. Master business. Courtesy doesn’t matter much when you’re pissing together,” he said with a wry grin. “Ah, but look at the time. I best be getting my own pony ready. Wouldn’t want to hold us up, would I?”

Shortly before noon, Thorin led them onto the East-West Road, heading to Bree. Bilbo — who was accustomed to walking trips conducted in contemplative silence — was disgusted at the amount of racket the Dwarves made. The Dwarves’ voices did not fall lower than _obnoxiously loud_ as they tossed jokes and jabs from pony to pony. All of it flew over Bilbo’s head, save for a few aborted attempts at pulling him into _some_ kind of conversation. Being both sour about his current predicament and disgusted at their behavior, Bilbo was as inclined to join them as he was to jump in a freezing lake.

Instead of walking with them, he trudged through the mud beside Gandalf's horse, maintaining a respectful distance from the enormous beast as he grouchily recalled the evening that had brought him to this point.

* * *

He knelt in the warm, wet earth, with a small pile of weeds to his right and the midday sun beating down on his back. He would have company that evening and he wanted to make a good impression. Generations of Hobbits had successfully inculcated him with that habit, along with many others — such as being _punctual_.

It was three full minutes past the half-hour when distant voices alerted him to the impending arrival of his guests. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that they were still a good distance away, but his sharp hearing picked out their conversation with ease.

“Ah, and there it is! Bag End,” exclaimed a voice, one Bilbo recognized as Gandalf. He gritted his teeth and yanked on a dandelion stem, cursing when the root snapped. “And if I’m not mistaken, I can see our host as well.”

“Up by that green door? Awfully … ordinary looking fellow,” said a Dwarf, his guttural accent full of sharp consonants and rolling vowels. “Much like all of these other halflings.”

“They prefer to be called Hobbits,” Gandalf corrected. “And you will find they are anything but ordinary, particularly this one. I cannot impress upon you how important it is that you are all excellent house guests. Remember your manners and be especially careful not to offend him.”

“ _That_ is to be our burglar?” said a third, another Dwarf. Then he scoffed. “Tharkȗn, is this a jest? He looks more like a grocer.”

“That is where you’re wrong, Thorin Oakenshield. He is often referred to as the Dragon of the Shire. I have chosen him as the fourteenth member of your company. I believe there is no better creature in Middle Earth to aid you on your quest.”

Another dandelion met its untimely end as Bilbo tugged with all of his might. That was most certainly _not_ how he was known.

“What could such a small fellow do to earn such a fierce name?” asked yet another Dwarf.

Bilbo stood just in time to see Gandalf, now much closer, bend to explain, quiet enough that Bilbo could not hear. The Dwarves all colored, snapping to look at him.

“Well!” Bilbo called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You’re all a bit late, but I very well can’t turn you away now that you’ve arrived.”

Without waiting for so much as a nod, Bilbo retreated back into the smial. He fed the fire and put the kettle on, and was in the middle of putting out a plate of snacks when the doorbell rang.

He opened the door to five Dwarves and Gandalf, the latter of whom had to bend over to be seen.

“Bilbo, my dear boy,” he said. “It’s been far too long.”

“So it has, Gandalf,” Bilbo replied, smiling amiably. In small doses, the wizard was excellent company. “And these are the Dwarves?” They were a motley bunch, and all looked displeased by being made to wait on the doorstep.

“There will be more,” Gandalf said.

Bilbo’s smile dropped. “How many?”

“Not many.”

“And how many is _that_?”

The foremost of the Dwarves — a fearsome, noble looking thing — spoke up. “We will be thirteen, when all of us arrive.”

Bilbo cursed himself for allowing Gandalf to persuade him to host them. “Oh, very well. I said I would hear you out, and so I shall. Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he said, as that was a traditional greeting among Dwarves.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Gandalf, beaming. “Here we have Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, Balin, and Thorin Oakenshield, your leader.”

“At your service,” they chorused, bowing and nodding.

“A pleasure,” Bilbo said ungraciously. He looked to Thorin, the one who had spoken first. “I’ve heard of you. I’ve been told you’re a _very important Dwarf._ ” Snickering, he turned into Bag End. “Come, come. Take those beastly boots off before you track mud all over the house, and put your swords in the umbrella stand. Tea will be ready soon.”

“A word, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked, nodding his head towards Bilbo’s sitting room.

* * *

The rain began as a soft, innocuous patter, but within the half-hour it pounded upon the heads of Dwarves and ponies alike. Hoods were drawn up and cloaks were pulled tighter around sodden shoulders. Bilbo shivered and followed suit, his cloak — borrowed from Dwalin — enveloping him to the ankles.

The hems of his trousers soaked through and their ends grew heavy with mud. He despaired of ever washing the mud out of the hair atop his feet. Orcrist weighed heavily on his aching shoulders, but he didn’t dare shift it while walking.

So passed their first day together. The next was no better and it seemed as though they would all drown before even seeing the shadow of the Misty Mountains on the eastern horizon. Late into the second day, they passed over the Brandywine Bridge and the Shire’s easternmost border. Bilbo stared back mournfully at his fair country, its rolling hills and gentle fields now obscured behind curtains of rain. He was scarcely a hundred feet away from it and already yearned for return. He felt a momentary pang of empathy for Thorin’s company, then thought better of it.

Here, the road wound a circuitous route between the spurs of rock and narrow valleys surrounding the Old Forest. The path narrowed significantly and the company bunched together, leaving Bilbo to evade the ponies’ teeth and hooves in the tight quarters.

Thorin wheeled his pony around at the mouth of a rocky defile. “We’ll camp on the other side.”

The company sighed in relief and their ponies seemed to press forward with renewed energy. Bilbo wished he had the same strength.

The sun set as they passed, single-file, along the slim path. A steep wooded incline dropped away on their right and a line of boulders as high as Gandalf’s shoulder boxed them in on the left. The light was fading rapidly and Bilbo stumbled often, barely keeping his footing on the rough road. So distracted was he that he didn’t notice the hunters approaching until they were already among them.

With a cry, a group of Men, roughly dressed and roughly armed, lept down from the rocks, waving their hands and yelling at the ponies until they spooked. Many of the Dwarves dismounted their frightened animals, grabbing their weapons and shouting Khuzdȗl battle cries as they dove at their attackers.

As Bilbo dodged churning hooves and swinging blades, he tried to count the Men in the raiding party, but he gave up after it was evident they were outnumbered and surrounded, barred from escape on both sides. The Dwarves were adept fighters, or made up for it in heart, and Bilbo hoped it would be enough to tip the scales in their favor.

Bilbo threw his hood back and pulled Orcrist free, only to drop its heavy and rain-slicked hilt into the muck. He ducked an over-enthusiastic blow from Bofur’s mattock and snatched Orcrist from the mud, sheathed it with great difficulty, and pulled out his dagger to reenter the fray.

The Men ignored him in favor of taller targets. This was their mistake, as Bilbo would dart in behind them and slice their legs, cutting hamstrings and tendons. With a cry, the Men would fall, and Bilbo would leave them at the mercy of his companions.

As Bilbo slipped away from his most recent victim, he heard a growling streak of Khuzdul and the scream of a pony, and turned in time to see Thorin pulled bodily from his mount. He fell with a muffled thud and sprung up, bare-handed, in the midst of four men, his sword lost in the scuffle.

“This is the one?” one Man asked.

“Can’t really tell. They all look the same to—”

His words broke off as the tip of Bilbo’s shortsword forced its way through his abdomen. With a strangled shout, Bilbo pulled the blade free and pushed past the dying man. He threw Orcrist at Thorin, squaring up beside him without checking to see if he had caught it.

* * *

The three swords hung above the mantle, framed by the portraits of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. The pictures and their frames had been fastidiously cleaned, but the swords bore a thin layer of dust.

“You still give them a place of honor,” Gandalf said, running his finger along one dirty hilt.

“They make good statement pieces, even without the complete set,” Bilbo said.

“And what sort of statement is that?”

“Well, it reminds Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just whose silver spoons she has in her pockets,” Bilbo replied, grinning puckishly.

Gandalf didn’t seem so impressed. “And you’re sure that they no longer have no sway over you?”

“None whatsoever,” Bilbo said. “Simply nostalgia.” Gandalf frowned, and Bilbo was quick to correct himself. “Oh, it really was a pleasant feeling. You can’t fault me for missing it.” The damnable wizard still looked unconvinced. “Look, I haven’t dusted them for weeks! Sometimes I forget they’re up there.” He sighed. “You still don’t believe me.”

He dragged over a bench and stepped onto it to take down the longest of the swords. It had a solid weight, heavy steel made heavier by the enchantments laid over it. When it had been used against Bilbo, it had glowed blue day and night, but it had lain dormant for years, and continued to do so as he offered it to Gandalf. “Take it.”

“You’re giving this to me?” the wizard asked. As Gandalf took the sword from Bilbo’s hands, he watched Bilbo’s face, as if seeking some radical change in expression or mood. Bilbo felt reluctance only because the sword’s absence left a dark patch on the faded wallpaper. Then again, he _had_ planned to remodel the room...

“I would rather the old thing be put to use than sit here collecting dust,” Bilbo said, carefully climbing off the bench. “Its name is Glamdring. Use it well.” He flinched as something crashed in the kitchen and fled to play host.

* * *

“What did I tell you!” Gandalf exclaimed. “Fierce as a dragon in a pinch.”

Bilbo groaned and resisted the urge to slam his head against a tree.

They sat upon stumps and rocks as they licked their wounds. Some counted their losses: keepsakes and tokens squirreled away in the baggage lost with five of their ponies. Others, with the fire of battle still coursing in their blood, paced in tight circles, discussing and reliving the skirmish until exhaustion caught up with them.

They had won free of the Men after a short battle, leaving many of their number dead or injured as the company retreated to the flatter country surrounding the bridge. Thorin and Balin were reluctant to try the road again, so they took conference with Gandalf on the other side of the clearing as the company waited. They soon came to a decision, as Thorin announced that they would be moving.

Since none of their number was seriously injured, the company redistributed the load among Dwarves and ponies alike. It was a subdued group that plodded away from the road, but they made camp within the hour, and Gloin was able to make a fire for the first time since they had set out. Thorin did not object to this overt sign of their presence, perhaps to raise morale, and Bilbo liked him all the better for it.

Chatter cropped up in fits and starts, and soon even Bilbo couldn’t be let alone. Bofur dropped down beside him, omnipresent grin in place.

“Never got the chance to thank you,” he said.

Bilbo blinked. “Whatever for?”

“Well, I daresay you saved my life back there, coming in with that little ankle-biter of yours.”

“ _Ankle biter?_ ” Bilbo scoffed. “I’ll have you know that this dagger has seen hundreds of battles and slain warriors far greater than yourself. It was forged in Gondolin, before … oh, never mind. This is all lost on you, isn’t it?”

Bofur grinned sheepishly, flushed red in embarrassment. “I’m no warrior, and can spit farther than I care about your Elves. But it sounds a mighty blade. What’s it called?”

It was Bilbo’s turn to color, his ears warming as he tripped over his words. “It … well.” He flipped the tiny blade in his hands. “I—huh. It doesn’t have a name, I suppose. It really is a little thing. Swords are named for their great deeds in battle, and I don’t suppose this one really is a sword. It hasn’t done anything.”

“Well, on you it’s a proper sword, I think,” Bofur said. “It’s deserved a name after today! Saving the life of Thorin Oakenshield! Beset by bounty hunters on the road and—”

“Wait a moment,” Bilbo interrupted. “ _Bounty hunters?_ ”

“Well, yes,” said Bofur, faltering. “Didn’t you know? Thorin said so to Balin, and Balin told Dwalin, who told Ori, who told Kili. And once Kili knows something, _everyone_ does.”

“I most certainly did _not_ know,” Bilbo said.

“Now you do.”

“Now I do. So someone does not want this king of Dwarves reaching his mountain,” Bilbo mused.

“Perhaps, but it’d not be wise to discuss that now,” Bofur said. He was still smiling, and Bilbo had to admit that he might be getting used to the Dwarf. Bofur jumped up, brushing down the front of his tunic.“‘That king of Dwarves,’ as you called him, is coming right this way, probably for a word with you.”

A glance over his shoulder confirmed it. “What could _he_ want?” Bilbo muttered. He spared a quick half-smile for Bofur, who saluted in return and made himself scarce.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said.

“Master Dwarf,” Bilbo replied with forced civility. Gandalf would no doubt want him to be cordial, and, really, Thorin could be no worse than a Sackville-Baggins.

Thorin offered Orcrist to Bilbo hilt-first. “This is a fine blade. Thank you for allowing me to use it.”

“I couldn’t let our journey come to a grisly end so soon. Though you and I must discuss why you would _ever_ be hunted at some point. I’m very curious about that.”

“Kili,” Thorin hissed under his breath. “Of course.”

“Anyway, I think it would be in all of our best interests if you kept the sword.”

“Keep it?” Thorin pulled the blade close, then paused, eyeing Bilbo warily. “Why?”

“Why not?” Bilbo demanded. “This an ancient Elvish blade, forged in Gondolin in the First Age. You couldn’t find a better sword in all of Arda!”

“It would not do for me to wield an Elf-forged blade,” Thorin said, though Bilbo could hear the reluctance in his voice.

“This sword is much better than that up-jumped fire poker,” said Bilbo with a disdainful sniff.

“My sister forged this sword for me and I named it Deathless when I slew the orc Azog the Defiler upon the threshold of … of Khazad-dum.” Thorin turned away, half his face in shadow, and Bilbo blanched, realizing his mistake. “But I shall accept your sword for the gift it is.”

“Its name is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver,” Bilbo said. Thorin was about to walk away when Bilbo added, “I apologize for speaking ill of Deathless.”

“Your gift and apology are accepted, Master Baggins,” said Thorin stiffly. “As you were.”

Bilbo met Gandalf’s eyes across the fire. If he could bear to pass the sword to a Dwarf he didn’t like, then surely he was free from its hold over him.

Bilbo returned to Bofur’s side and said, “You know, I think I’ve thought of a name for this sword.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, I think I’ll call it _Nagtelch_. That’s Sindarin. For _ankle-biter_ , as you suggested. It’s an apt name.”

Bofur tossed his head back and laughed, clapping Bilbo on the back so hard that he stumbled. Yet Bilbo couldn’t find it in himself to be frustrated by the display. “An apt name indeed! Hopefully you won’t be using it again, though.”

“Hopefully,” Bilbo said, but if the attack was anything to go by, their journey would be anything but a pony ride in the May sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a Naruto reference! If you got it you're a nerd!


	2. The Barrowdowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detour lands the company in dire straits. Bilbo makes an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Crispmas!

As if in apology for their stolen ponies, the weather improved drastically. The sullen, rain-laden clouds passed to the west, and in their place were bright afternoons of early June. The company made excellent time despite their predicament.

The Men had stolen five ponies, which meant five of them had to walk, but, worse, those ponies had carried most of their food and Bombur’s cooking equipment. Bilbo had thought they would resupply in Bree, but, instead, Thorin took them off the road to avoid further attention. They followed the Brandywine River south on the Shire side of the banks, forging through the thick underbrush with only their axes and their stocky ponies to break a path. It was hot, tiresome, and thankless work, and their progress slowed to a crawl as roots tripped them and spiderwebs tangled in their hair.

Early in the afternoon of their ninth day out of the Shire, the company stopped at a bend in the Brandywine to water their ponies and stretch their legs. Although it was lunchtime, they had no meal, and the rumbling of fourteen empty stomachs nearly overpowered the chuckling stream. Having only one meal a day was especially galling to Bilbo, who had been accustomed to seven meals — and several courses therein — for two ages. Not even a pipe of Old Toby could soothe his aching belly.

His eyes wandered to the gold-edged grass crushed under one hairy foot and idly wondered if it was edible. _That’s it._

“What’d you say lad?” Oin asked, and Bilbo realized he had spoken aloud. The entire company’s attention was now fixed on him.

He doubted they would care what he said, but he felt it had to be said anyway, so he cleared his throat and set his hands on his hips. “I am not moving an inch until we find more food.”

The Dwarves rolled their eyes and returned to honing their blades or smoking their pipes, with many a rude comment about Hobbits and their bottomless stomachs. Slowly, Ori set down his sketchbook and said, “I have to agree with Mister Baggins.” The company stared at him incredulously. “This is the only tunic I have and I don’t fancy walking naked across the mountains because I’m falling out of it.”

“Here, here,” Kíli cheered from his seat by the riverbank.

“What are we to do if those Men come back?” Nori asked. “Or Orcs? Roll over and let them kill us because we’re too weak to fight them off?”

“The Men won’t return,” Dwalin said. “We made sure of that.”

Bilbo seized his chance to fan the flames. “I’m sure the way you let them take our ponies _terrified_ them.”

“We have faced leaner times than this,” Balin said, holding out a placating hand.

“Not when we were expected to fight a dragon,” Bofur said.

“Months from now,” Balin said. “We will have resupplied before then.”

A few curious gazes drifted towards the company’s leader, but Thorin seemed content to smoke his pipe and stare into the Brandywine’s clear waters. Something about his stance let Bilbo know he was keeping a close ear on the conversation.

“We have enough supplies to reach Rivendell on full rations,” Gandalf said.

Thorin cut short his brooding to favor the wizard with a glare. “Our quest is of utmost secrecy. I would reluctantly ask my own kin for aid, let alone an Elf.”

Bilbo had sudden memories of bright helms gleaming under the spewing lava, of swarms of well-aimed arrows, and of legions of orcs falling before a single warrior with a shining gem suspended upon his brow. For once, he and Thorin agreed; he had no desire to see the Elves either, although their food might change his mind…

“Someone already knows of your quest,” Gandalf said, “unless you still believe those bounty hunters found us by mere chance.”

“No,” Thorin said, a touch sulkily. “They knew my name.”

“What good will the Elves do?” Glóin groused. “Fill our heads with their insipid music and our packs with their _vegetables_ , is what!”

“And insult us behind our backs in that chittery tongue of theirs,” Oin added.

“Lord Elrond is the most powerful being on this side of the Misty Mountains,” Gandalf argued. Bilbo was offended and wondered if _Elrond_ would be willing to back up Gandalf's claim. “He may be able to find something yet unseen on your map, not to mention grant you food and a safe place to rest. A generous friend is just what we need at times like these.”

“In return for what?” Thorin asked bitterly. “I know well the avarice of Elves. A generous friend he may be, until he decides we would be more useful in his debt.”

“We could rob Rivendell,” Kíli suggested as he tore at the grass around his crossed legs.

Dwalin pointed to him. “I like his plan.”

Bilbo liked it, too. It had been too long since he had terrorized Elves, and they always had excellent treasuries. He refrained from commenting; as far as the Dwarves were concerned, he had only ever struck fear into the hearts of fauntlings running amok in his garden. He wondered if the Dwarves would like him better if he seconded Kili’s plan, though.

“We will continue east,” Balin said. “Some of us are too well-known in these parts, but we could find a town in Eregion.”

“A month from now!” Dori groaned.

Bilbo’s stomach twisted at the thought. He could reach Rivendell within the week if he flew...

Thorin gestured them all into silence and let it stretch for a moment. At long last, he said, “Balin and a few others will go into Bree, while the rest of us wait by the Brandywine.”

“This is folly,” huffed Gandalf. “Elrond would never extort you as these Bree-folk will. I thought you had had enough of their ‘diplomacy’.”

Thorin twitched as if slapped. “You may ask Elrond for his assistance in your own time. Men may be dishonest, but at least I know the root of their lies is pure greed.”

Gandalf scowled, chomping fiercely on his pipe and muttering about the stubbornness of Dwarves. No one paid him any heed — not even when blue flames shot a foot out of the bowl.

“Me?” Balin asked. “All of Bree knows me by reputation, if not name.”

“We usually pass through Bree in the spring,” Thorin said. “As long as you leave your armor here, no one will be the wiser.”

The company resumed their trek moments later and spent the rest of the afternoon finding a safe crossing. It was not made without a great deal of splashing, both from Dwalin — who could not swim — and the more excitable ponies. For Bilbo, every step against the current felt like moving through molasses. Halfway across, his foot caught on an unseen rock and he pitched forward into the frigid water. He would have been content to lie there and drown, but he was hauled back up.

“Steady there, Mister Baggins,” Fíli said. “The sun will set in three hours; we’re almost done.”

“Can’t,” Bilbo mumbled, morosely spitting out a mouthful of water. He, the greatest blight of his age, had been undone by an empty stomach. There were worse ways to die.

Then, another set of hands grabbed Bilbo by the belt and shoulder and tossed him over the back of Fíli’s pony like a sack of potatoes. The pony spooked at the sudden weight, but to Bilbo’s immense gratitude, it did not throw him.

“You had best keep up, Master Hobbit,” Thorin said, his voice dripping with contempt. “You’re too heavy to carry.”

Bilbo was too cold, exhausted, and hungry to reply.

On the other side of the Brandywine, Balin, Glóin, Oin, Bombur, and Nori took three of the remaining ponies and made plans to rejoin Thorin in the South Downs in five days. Once more, Gandalf exhorted Thorin to go to Rivendell, but he would not be swayed.

After parting ways, the remaining company rode until sundown, when they made camp in the shadow of the Old Forest. The company drew lots for watch — Bilbo was overlooked yet again, despite his vision and hearing being vastly superior than anyone else’s — and settled around the campfire. Bofur stoked an enormous blaze and the sparks drifted skyward, where the Valacirca swung high in its nightly waltz. Crickets chirped sweetly in the underbrush and the air was redolent with the scent of honeysuckle and smoke. If Bilbo had ignored his twisting stomach — and he could not — it would have been a pleasant evening.

Bilbo knew better than to forage in the Old Forest, so instead of sneaking off, he inched close to the fire while maintaining a safe distance from the company. He was not frightened of them; he had faced many foes more fearsome than eight hungry Dwarves, and not the eight brightest or strongest, at that. He simply felt unwelcome. The Dwarves were already a unit, with outsiders like Gandalf and Bilbo falling beyond their purview.

He refused to let his isolation affect him. He had lived alone for thousands of years and, in retrospect, a few lean and lonely days would seem shorter than a heartbeat. Yet, his eye often strayed to Dwalin helping Fíli braid his hair, or to Bofur inspecting something Bifur had carved, or Dori holding Ori’s ink as he scribbling in his dog-eared book. Even Thorin quietly watching all of them with Orcrist naked across his lap affected him more than he’d like.

Bilbo ascribed it to the absence of the swords. They had been the center of his life for centuries, until Belladonna and Bungo had helped him let them go. Nothing had appeared to fill their void, so he had tried to lessen its edge by taking up hobby after hobby. Perhaps that was the real reason he had joined this madcap quest; few things kept him busier than wondering when his next meal would be.

And, if that failed, a one-fourteenth share of the greatest treasure in Arda awaited. If that much wealth couldn’t fill this hole, nothing could.

As the evening wore on, Bilbo’s unease did not dissipate. It only grew, until he knew that he could not put it down to mere exclusion or melancholy. In fact, it felt as if someone were watching him. When he voiced his concerns to Gandalf, the wizard merely smiled.

“You can sense them?” Gandalf asked.

“Sense who?” Bilbo asked irritably. “I’d rather not fight the Old Forest again.”

Gandalf’s bushy brows disappeared under the brim of his hat. “ _Again?_ I don’t think you’ve shared the story of the first time and I will be glad to hear it, at a later date. As for our watchers, I doubt they bear us any ill will. We will find out in a moment.”

Bilbo glanced around, one hand wrapped around Nagtelch’s hilt. Across the fire, Thorin jumped to his feet, searching the dark trees for danger.

A small host of Men erupted from the gloom, bows drawn. The startled company reached for their weapons and Bilbo felt his other self reflexively coil within him, ready to strike despite Gandalf’s warning.

Fíli shoved him down, taking a defensive position between Bilbo and the nearest Man, with Kíli guarding their right and Ori and Dori their left, with the fire at their backs. Bilbo appreciated the gesture, even if his sore and muddy shoulder did not.

“Who goes there?” barked a Man, his face shrouded beneath a hood.

“Who disturbs peaceful travelers after sundown?” Thorin retorted, pointing Orcrist’s keen edge at his interlocutor.

“Ones who would see this land safe, no matter the disturbance it may bring to … _peaceful_ travelers.”

“Oh, enough of this,” Gandalf snapped, taking up his staff. “I am Gandalf the Grey, and it is by my grace that they are traveling these lands. Their business is none of yours, if you know what’s good for you.”

The Man brushed back his hood, revealing a craggy face of middling years crowned with greying black hair. “Mithrandir?” The other Men lowered their weapons upon seeing the wizard, but the Dwarves did not reciprocate. “I did not look to find you in such company.”

“You are in the presence of Thorin Oakenshield, Heir of Durin,” Dwalin snarled, hefting his axes, “and some respect would be in order.”

“Who are you?” Thorin demanded.

The Man gave him a curt bow. “We are the Dúnedain, scions of Elendil, and guardians of the the lost kingdom of Arnor.”

“Who?” Kíli whispered to Fíli.

“No idea,” Fíli whispered back.

Bilbo had heard of the Dúnedain rangers, but he had arrived in Eriador during the apogee of Arnor’s power. By the time these rough folk had risen out of its ashes, he had established himself in the Shire, tucked away from their usual paths. He was grateful for it; he had heard their arrows could strike a blueberry at a thousand paces under scant moonlight, that they could track a white grouse through a snowstorm, and that they were as tireless as hounds on the scent.

“A load of pretty titles, but I don’t think you’ve introduced yourself yet,” Bofur pointed out.

“Dírhael is my name, and Ivorwen is that of my captain and wife,” the ranger said, gesturing to the hard-bitten woman to his left. “We mean you no harm.” He stuck his arrow in the soft loam.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged looks and sheathed their weapons, with the company following suit. Bifur was last of all, growling in Khuzdûl under his breath until Bofur put a hand on his shoulder.

“We were attacked by bandits last week,” Thorin told Dírhael. “You can understand our unease.”

“Where?” Ivorwen asked.

“On the very borders of the Shire,” Gandalf snapped. “Where were your rangers?”

“Tracking,” Dírhael said grimly. “The ground aches and moans as if a great evil has passed through, and we have been trying in vain to find its source.”

Thorin looked up swiftly.

“This is most troubling,” Gandalf said. “When did you first sense it?”

“A week ago,” Dírhael said. He eyed the Dwarves warily before stepping around Dori to sit at Gandalf’s side by the fire. The company glared at the remaining Men, daring them to test their mettle. “We had assembled near Weathertop to share tidings from the far parts of Arnor when we all felt the earth convulse, rebelling beneath the feet of a fell creature.” Dírhael’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I have never felt its like this close to the Shire, and that worries me… But it is easy to trace, for this land is unaccustomed to great evils.”

Bilbo’s stomach churned uncomfortably as he guessed its source, and he pressed himself farther into the damp soil. He felt strangely proud that he was strong enough to frighten rangers dozens of leagues away, but on the whole he preferred to bury himself in the leaf litter than subject his delicate wings to dozens of arrows.

“Using what?” Dwalin asked derisively. “A twitch in your ear?”

“The blood of Elves and Maiar yet runs in our veins,” Ivorwen snapped, one hand slipping down to caress her sword. “We sense what many cannot.”

“There’s not a Man alive who can feel something through the earth that Dwarves can’t,” Dwalin said, and the rangers and the company seemed ready to fight once more, until Gandalf spoke.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Wargs,” Ivorwen said immediately. “We’ve seen signs of their passage from Rhudaur to the edges of Ered Luin, then east again through the old lands of Arnor.”

“We would have felt the wargs long ago if they were the source,” Dirhael countered. “We must rid ourselves of them, but not until we find the greater evil.”

“The wargs,” Thorin said. “Are they nearby?”

“Within ten leagues, I would say,” Dirhael said, passing a hand through his lank hair. “The evil is closer, maybe even within one—”

“We must get to Bree,” Dori said. “We must warn them!”

“Warn them, aye, but going there together is too dangerous,” Dwalin said. “Thorin and I would be recognized.”

“I’ll go,” Kíli announced. “I’m the fastest and I’m used to traveling unseen.”

“No,” Thorin said. “I’ll not risk you going alone — or with your brother, for that matter. Your place is with the company.”

 _Where I can keep an eye on you,_ went unspoken.

Bilbo stood up, beating the dirt from his trousers. “I’ll go.”

“What is a Hobbit doing here?” Ivorwen asked incredulously.

“We can return you to the Shire’s borders, if you would like,” another ranger offered.

Dírhael asked, “Mithrandir, is this your doing?”

“It is of my own doing, thank you,” Bilbo said before someone threw him over their shoulder and carried him to Bag End. While the last week had been far from ideal, he had decided to go on this quest, and he would not be dissuaded by bad weather and a few ill-tempered Men.

“We will pass through Bree by tomorrow morning,” Ivorwen said, “and we will find your companions, if you wish.”

“They can be trusted,” Gandalf muttered.

After a long pause, Thorin said, “Find Balin son of Fundin. He is well-known within Bree.”

Ivorwen inclined her head in acknowledgement.

Dírhael stood, plucking his arrow from the ground. “Keep a heavier watch than your wont, and make no fire after dark.”

“We know,” snapped Dwalin.

“Mithrandir,” Dírhael said, bowing to the wizard. Then he and the other Dúnedain withdrew into the forest, as swiftly and silently as they had first appeared.

“We are in dark times indeed when the first thing a ranger thinks when he sees a company of Dwarves is that they must be the _great evil_ ,” Thorin said. “It was not Dwarves who failed to destroy the One Ring.”

“No,” Gandalf said irritably, “but perhaps in Dwarvish hands it would have come to a more terrible end.”

Thorin ignored him.

* * *

They broke camp almost immediately, heading east. The moment they passed under the treetops, the spring air, once pleasant, became redolent with the stench of rotting vegetation. The branches seemed to close in over their heads and the grass tugged at their feet. The crickets and the creak of old wood in the breeze were replaced by silence, and a blanket of low-lying clouds smothered all moonlight. The ponies shuffled along with their tails jammed between their legs and their eyes rimmed with white, and, before long, they refused to go any further. The Dwarves dismounted and dragged the ponies along by their bridles, with mixed success.

For once, Bilbo heeded the ponies’ instincts. He, too, could not shake the sense of utter _wrongness_ congealing in his breast.

For a brief, heart-stopping second, he saw someone drifting behind them — a tall, dark figure with eyes that burned with cold flame. He opened his mouth to shout a warning and the shape vanished into mist Bilbo could have sworn had not been there moments ago.

“Stay together,” Thorin called, his voice flat in the still air.

“I mislike this greatly,” Gandalf muttered. The tip of his staff glowed sullenly in the darkness; his grey cloak and hat made the rest of him invisible. “We should go back.”

“Into the jaws of an orc pack?” Thorin demanded.

“Worse than orcs will find us if we don’t turn around.”

Behind Bilbo, Kíli pulled an arrow from his quiver. “We’ll be ready for it.” He glanced to his left. “Right Bifur?”

Bifur stamped his spear into the ground and nodded.

“You’ll be perfectly safe with us, Master Baggins,” Kíli said. He shook his shoulders as if to loosen up and climbed onto his pony’s back. “There isn’t an orc alive that could kill uncle — and Fí and I are, of course, great warriors.”

Bilbo had to smile at his bravado. “I’ll try not to accidentally stab someone,” he said, patting Nagtelch. He missed Orcrist — there was something reassuring about wielding an enormous sword, even without the skill to use it.

At the front of the column, Thorin and Gandalf seemed to have reached an agreement, as the Dwarves were trying to turn their ponies. The animals reared, tossing their heads and whinnying shrilly.

Bilbo pulled Nagtelch from its sheath. The blade was still dull grey.

“It’s not orcs,” he said, his voice heavy with dread.

“Form a circle!” Thorin barked, yanking his pony back and drawing Orcrist. “Put Master Baggins in the middle.”

“Now just a m—”

Dark forms burst from the fog with shrill screeches, their long, dead fingers grasping at the Dwarves. The Dwarves released their ponies and the frightened animals plunged back down the forest path, towards Bilbo and Bifur. Without thinking, Bilbo grabbed Bifur’s arm and used his weight to pull the old Dwarf out of harm’s way. Kíli loosened an arrow at the nearest wight and it struck the figure between the eyes. It staggered on as if nothing had happened.

“Burn them!” Gandalf boomed as he shot a bolt of fire into their ranks.

The front of the train erupted into chaos, garishly lit by the harsh flames. At the sight, Kíli’s pony bolted into the mist, taking Kíli with it.

“Kíli!” Fíli screamed, sprinting after the runaway pony.

“Stay together!” Gandalf ordered.

Thorin lopped the head of a wight off with one blow of Orcrist and ran after the boys, the company following in his wake.

Bilbo watched the battle with wide eyes from some gorse bushes. Two wights had blocked Dori and Ori from following the company. Dori crushed one of them into the ground with his hammer, but the second one laid its hand upon his head and he went limp, his eyes fluttering shut. Bifur stabbed it through the chest, using the spear’s lug to hold it in place as Ori stuffed a burning patch of grass in its face with his bare hands. The wight howled, its head aflame, and stumbled back into the mist from whence it came.

“Dori,” Ori said, pulling his brother up by his armpits. “Dori!”

He would not wake.

“His skin’s gone cold!” Ori shouted to Bifur, his voice strained with panic.

Bifur threw one of Dori’s arms around his neck, with Ori taking the other. Together, they dragged the older Dwarf in the direction of the company’s flight. Bilbo let them fade into the fog, then listened until all sounds of their passage vanished.

For the first time in days, Bilbo was utterly alone. He stood up and stretched his arms behind his back, then scratched behind his ear as he tried to figure out how to return to the Shire. The company had greater things to worry about, and Gandalf would know where he had gone.

Bilbo crept out from behind the bush, grateful that his adopted form had the stealthiness of an actual hobbit. He had expected the relief at his solitude to last, but he had scarcely taken five steps before the dank air closed around him again, even more unpleasantly than before. Dead leaves fluttered from withered branches, and Bilbo jumped, fearing more wights. His speed slowed to scarcely more than a crawl as he snuck from bush to tree, relying on the rough terrain to shelter him.

Rather suddenly, the leaf litter under his toes gave way to brittle brown grass, and he was free of the forest. An enormous shape loomed out of the darkness — a stone monolith, jutting upward like a fang out of green gums. Something foul pulsed from its center, something that intimated slow decay and hopelessness.

Suddenly, a baleful yellow eye seared his mind, and Bilbo leapt back.

 _”No!”_ he shouted at the sheer, grey face. He thought of sunlight, of flowers blooming in the window boxes of Bag End, of the Party Tree’s spreading branches, of laughter and songs and fireworks and good food and dozens of other tiny things the hobbits had taught him to love. Perhaps a smarter creature would have turned from such an implacable foe, but Bilbo would not be swayed. One lifetime spent in thrall of another was enough for him.

Last of all, Bilbo conjured images of the company around the fire. They were not the most welcoming of sorts, but the camaraderie they shared was undeniable. The presence withdrew with a sharp _snap_. The pervading sense of rot lightened and Bilbo knew that if he passed the monolith, he would soon be out of these dreary hills.

Then, from behind, he heard the faint clash of weaponry. It was unmistakably the company, still at the mercy of the wights. Even if they prevailed, they would still need to challenge the stone, and Bilbo was unsure if the Dwarves would survive until the morning sun could dispel the worst of the enchantment.

Quite against his will, Bilbo’s feet turned from the open fields and back towards the forest, his steps quickening as he approached the source of the ruckus. He stood at the top of a steep hill, looking down on the beleaguered company. They were on foot and drawn in a tight circle with two dozen wights surrounding them. Gandalf stood in their midst, laying about with Glamdring. Thorin was at his side, doing equal damage with Orcrist. Of the others still on their feet, Dwalin was staggering, relying on the inertia of his mighty swings to keep himself upright, and Bifur and Kíli seemed on the verge of collapsing. The other half the company was piled behind them, their faces pale and unmoving.

Bilbo’s sensitive hearing could detect even more wights crawling from their crypts, drawn by the noise and the promise of more life to devour. Even with Gandalf in their ranks, the company would not even reach the sentinel stone.

Bilbo knew what he could do and shrunk back, waggling a finger at himself. He had not assumed his true form in millennium — not since hobbits had first appeared in Eriador. He was not sure he even remembered how, and even if he did, he would be saving the Dwarves only to die at their hand.

As he watched, a wight slipped under Bifur’s spear and traced one hand down Kíli’s face. His eyes rolled back into his head and his blade fell from nerveless hands.

“Kíli!” Thorin shouted, chopping a wight in half to reach his nephew’s side, only for that wight to be replaced with two more. Now only four Dwarves remained on their feet.

Bilbo made his choice.

No one deserved to die in this awful place.

His soft hobbit flesh melted away, his hair morphing into hard scales and his dirty nails curling into vicious claws. His flabby, suntanned arms stretched into powerful limbs and his face elongated into a muzzle filled with sharp teeth. His wings erupted from his armored back and, for the first time in thousands of years, Bilbo was himself.

He unfurled his wings with a sharp _crack_ and coasted down the hill, claws out to catch the first wight. He sunk his teeth into its torso and tore it in half, gagging at the sour taste. His tail took out four more wights, and he battered another with his wing.

He left the Dwarves to deal with the fallen wights and leapt over Gandalf to fight the others, his wings flared around his body to shield the sleeping Dwarves. He inhaled, drawing all the warmth in his body to the space just within his throat, letting it wax until the heat was too fierce for him to bear. Then he exhaled, releasing a searing column of air at the wights. The grass spontaneously caught fire, the mist burning off in a line of steam. The wights howled — a high, piercing sound that cut into his ears — and clutched their burning bodies as they dissolved into ash.

Bilbo twisted to fight off any more wights behind him, only to find an strangely triumphant Gandalf and three stunned Dwarves. Bilbo arched his neck proudly. He had done well by them.

Thorin was the first to recover. He pointed Orcrist at Bilbo’s chest and said, “Kill it.”


	3. The House of Tom Bombadil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company has a short respite in the home of an unlikely ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **V:** Happy New Year, kids! This was fun because mudkippy absolutely hates Tom Bombadil. We bartered for plot points and I got this one.
> 
>  **M:** Tolkien himself didn't know who or what Tom Bombadil was! Just saying...

_“Kill it,”_ said Thorin.

Bifur and Dwalin squared up beside him, weapons held at the ready.

A feral hiss issued from Bilbo's throat and his back arched in warning. His wings clung tightly to his body, ready to whip out at anyone who dared approach. He did not wish to fight the Dwarves; battling the wights had tired him and he didn’t know if he had the strength to fight the Dwarves. And, despite everything, the Dwarves had grown on him.

But if they threatened his life, he would have no choice.

His vision suddenly took on a dark, nebulous edge, and he staggered, leaning heavy on the hillside to keep himself upright. He shivered and struggled back to his feet, always keeping his eyes on the cautiously advancing Dwarves. His thoughts, which had been crystal clear only moments before, turned slow and viscous. He knew he ought to flee, but for the life of him, he could not compel himself to do so.

His gaze met Thorin’s and found only hate and fear. If only Bilbo could charm and beguile with merely a glance, like the fire drakes of old! Then he would not be so helpless. He raised a wing to knock Thorin’s feet out from under him, but the moment it left his side, his hide contracted as the frigid air made contact with his exposed scales. He was so _cold…_

Bilbo feebly raised his head as he gathered heat in his throat, only to find that there was none to be had. Gandalf was shouting, but Bilbo could not find it in himself to care. Nor could he remember the danger he had thought he was in, so he laid down and shrank, his scales receding to give way to skin, and his true self hidden once more.

Through heavy eyes, he saw Thorin pause mid-swing, his face contorted in revulsion. “You ask me to spare this … this _monster?_ ” Thorin spat, looking down upon Bilbo with naked hatred. Bilbo frowned, pushing through the haze of exhaustion, but his teeth chattered too hard to speak, even if he could remember how to string words together.

“Bilbo Baggins is no monster,” Gandalf said. “You should both be ashamed. Is this any way to act? And, Thorin, if you will not have my burglar, I will have him returned unharmed. And not without your thanks. He did, after all, just save us from a very certain and very awful death.”

Bifur muttered something under his breath.

“I would rather face dragonfire than have the wights drag us into their crypts,” Gandalf snapped. “Think on that before you further insult Bilbo.”

Thorin’s face twisted as he thought, and he finally doffed his coat and threw it on the ground before Bilbo. “Cover yourself,” he ordered, purposefully avoiding looking at Bilbo.

Bilbo, naked as the day he was born, grasped the cloak and stood on trembling legs to saunter up to Thorin. “What?” he asked, a hand on his hip. “Does something _bother_ you, Master Dwarf?”

“Not a step closer, dragon,” Dwalin snarled, brandishing his axes.

It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but it looked as though Thorin’s ears had turned red.

“Bilbo, stop antagonizing Thorin,” Gandalf said. “We have greater problems, like moving the company before more wights find us.”

The Dwarves glowered at Bilbo for a moment longer before stalking off to revive their companions. No matter how much they shouted or shook their friends, not a single one stirred to wakefulness.

Bilbo, who had a fair bit of experience with such enchantments, attempted to approach Bofur, but Bifur brandished his spear threateningly.

“My apologies, Master Bifur,” said Bilbo. He stepped away and contented himself with shivering uncontrollably as he waited. No matter how much he hopped up and down and rubbed his arms, he could not banish the creeping chill. He thought he might faint for want of sunlight, and how embarrassing that would be!

“Hullo!” a clear voice called out.

Thorin drew Orcrist and shouted, “Who is there?”

A short figure appeared from the mists, neither Man nor Dwarf nor Hobbit. He lhad a wide grin that disappeared beneath a thick beard and a tanned face creased with laugh lines. There was something unearthly about that him that made the hair stand up on Bilbo’s neck. He was not evil, certainly, but Bilbo would not be surprised to find he was made of similar stuff as Gandalf.

“A host of little travelers, I see,” he exclaimed. He dipped his head towards Gandalf, then Bilbo. “And some who are not so small, as well! And not strangers, either. I am Tom Bombadil, and I have come just in time.” He bobbed his head and looked at the sleeping Dwarves. “You have found trouble with the wights.”

Bilbo scowled at Tom while Gandalf said, “That we have. We would very much appreciate it if you helped us wake them… Isn’t that right, Bilbo?”

“Yes,” Bilbo mumbled. _So long as I don’t need to help._ He was just beginning to warm.

Tom knelt down beside him, that disgustingly cheerful still planted on his weathered features. "Terrible things, aren't they? But no match for you, _Krul_."

Bilbo cringed at the name and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. " _Bilbo,_ " he hissed.

"A much better name," Tom said approvingly, bobbing his head. Then he clapped his hands together. "Now! I can have your lazy Dwarves up and about in no time, and won't they be disappointed to rise from their naps?"

He ordered Thorin, Bifur, and Dwalin to lay the other Dwarves out in a line, side by side. At first, they seemed dubious, but a few stern looks from Gandalf got them moving. Once the sleeping dwarves were dragged and rolled into an uneven order, Tom stood before them and raised his hand.

  
_Wake now, my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!_

_Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;_

_Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken._

_Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!_

All at once, the dwarves jolted awake with shouts and grunts. “I was having the strangest dream,” Ori mused, but when anyone asked for details, he refused to elaborate.

“Who is this?” asked Bofur, stretching and yawning. “What did we miss?”

“And why is Master Baggins naked?” said Kili.

“I am Tom Bombadil, Master of Wood, Water, and Hill,” Bombadil explained. Then he gestured to Bilbo, hunkered down beneath Thorin’s furs. “And I would know this fellow anywhere, even if he wears the skin of the kindest creatures in Arda. He is a skin-changer of Sauron’s army.”

Bilbo groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Formerly,” he corrected as he fantasized about literally melting the smile off Bombadil’s face. Those who had seen him were unfazed, but those who had not seemed doubtful.

After a moment, Kili snorted with laughter. “A _skin-changer?_ Am I meant to believe this?” He assumed a tone of polite doubt. “So, Master Baggins, what is it that you, um, skin-change into?”

“A dragon,” said Bilbo with a haughty sniff. He was, after all, very proud.

“ _Usluk? ‘adadith!_ You can’t expect me to believe that. It’s not true, right?” Kili asked.

“It is,” growled Thorin, and Bifur nodded.

“This _monster_ deceived us every step of this journey and tried to kill your uncle,” Dwalin said. “We should kill it.”

“Not here,” Gandalf said hurriedly. “Imagine how many wights the smell of a dragon’s worth of blood would attract.”

Bilbo glared at him. “This isn’t helping!”

Gandalf gave one of his nearly imperceptible shrugs.

“Then we’ll kill him on the other side of the Barrow Downs,” Dwalin said. “How far is that?”

“Far and far and far,” Bombadil sang cheerfully, twirling around on his heel. “Let us go there immediately. This is no place to discuss such dark things.”

“Agreed!” Bilbo squeaked through chattering teeth. After they passed into the sunlight again, and Bilbo was properly warmed, he would burn everything and everyone within ten miles out of pure spite before returning to his retirement, where he belonged.

They walked single file, so as not to lose each other in the mist that gradually burned away in the morning light. Bilbo could feel the moment they had passed the borders of the Barrow Downs and whipped around, expecting an axe to bury itself in the back of his skull at any moment. Fortunately, it seemed the Dwarves were not as sensitive.

Still, the chill, compounded by his growing paranoia, would not leave Bilbo’s bones. He lagged behind the company, since he could not keep pace with Gandalf, who was deep in conversation with Bombadil at the front of the group. Also, Bilbo had no desire to speak to Bombadil. He would invariably bring up the incident with the Old Forest and Bilbo hated discussing it.

Before long, Thorin was snapping at him to move faster.

“ _’adadith_ ” Kili whispered. The Dwarves were still were not aware of Bilbo’s keen hearing, and he planned to keep it that way. “I don’t think he’s well. He looks pale.”

“I do not care how he looks,” Thorin replied.

“But if we slowed down…”

“I will not accommodate that beast.”

Bofur, who must have overheard, said, “He’s still Bilbo, just—”

“A worm. Dragons are selfish, manipulative monsters, with no thought for anything but their own hides, with no love for any creature they deem below them. I will not abide such a beast going on this quest,” said Thorin. As he spoke he clenched and unclenched his fist as though he wished for nothing more than to reach for his sword. “I will not abide such a creature being a part of the company.”

Their conversation tapered off after that. Though not one, but _two_ of the Dwarves had vouched for him, the exchange left a foul taste in Bilbo’s mouth.

By mid-morning, they had departed the bleak fells of the Barrow Downs and entered a land of soft, dewy hills. Songbirds chirped overhead and the breeze that blew through the rich grass was sweet with the aroma of wildflowers. In the distance, Bilbo could see a cottage nestled against a hill, and that seemed to be Bombadil’s destination.

As they approached, Bilbo saw that it was vaguely reminiscent of the Shire’s smials, but the door was rectangular and the hall was long and squat. The windows were flung open, and through them flowed a song of mesmeric beauty. It seemed to worm its way into Bilbo’s very soul, soothing whatever it touched. His sullenness from earlier did not dissipate, but it was greatly ameliorated.

Bombadil opened the door and ushered them inside. “And here is fair Goldberry, daughter of the river.”

She was lovely, arrayed in blue and green fabric that fell from her shoulders and cascaded to the floor like a coursing waterfall. Her skin was brown, like good earth, and her hair was bound in green and gold. She leapt up to greet them with the same voice as the singer they had heard earlier.

“Hello, good guests,” she said. “I am Goldberry. You look weary.” She took Kili’s hands and smiled, and he looked so shocked that he might fall over. “Come, follow me. We shall refresh you and feed you, and then there is much for you to discuss, is there not?”

“It seems fairly straightforward to me,” Dwalin grumbled. “Let’s kill the beast and be done with it.”

“Peace, O Dwarves!” Goldberry chided. “Let the dragon speak his piece before you levy judgement upon him. And let us fill your bellies, too, for many rash decisions have been made on empty stomachs.”

After Bilbo was clean and dressed, he returned to the main room of the hall. There was no sign of Tom, Goldberry, or Gandalf, but a fire had been set in the hearth and — more importantly — a sumptuous feast had been laid out on the table.

Bilbo grabbed a stack of blankets sitting on a chair and wrapped himself in all of them before shoveling food onto his plate and crouching beside the fire with his bounty. The Dwarves began trickling in soon afterward. Bilbo kept a wary eye on them; while it seemed they were ignoring him, they could turn at any moment.

The Dwarves were always loud at mealtimes, and no less boisterous after their brush with death. In fact, the danger seemed to redouble their merrymaking efforts. All the while, Bilbo silently picked his plate clean — bones and all — and wondered how long it would take him to walk back to Bag End. That he would be going home on the morrow was certain, and he didn’t regret it in the slightest.

And if there was a small part of him that rebelled against going back to staid Hobbiton, who needed to know?

Bilbo was just contemplating searching for a cup of tea to chase the cold out of his lungs when Fili and Kili left the table and pulled chairs up in front of Bilbo. “Hello,” he said uncomfortably.

“Is it true?” Kili asked, hovering at the edge of his seat.

“The dragon bit, he means,” Fili clarified. “And also the Sauron bit.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Of course it is.”

“Well, tell us!” Kili commanded.

If there was anything Bilbo loved more than gardening, it was storytelling, and he had never had the chance to recite this one before. The first words were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit down on them. His story would not endear him to anyone, not even two young Dwarves that, Bilbo assumed, had grown up on all sorts of grisly tales.

Then again, he had nothing to lose if he were going home tomorrow. The least he could do was spend a little time with an willing and excitable audience.

“Only if I have some tea,” Bilbo said.

Minutes later, the most hastily made cup of tea in all of Arda was steeping in his hands. Just holding it did wonders for the chills.

“Firstly, I should warn you that some of this is guesswork: mine or Gandalf’s or our fine host’s. Who my first ancestors were is entirely speculation, and a long and boring story no matter what, so we’ll begin where I came in.”

“Good,” said Kili, grinning. “I like when stories start at the good bit.”

Bilbo gave him a quelling glance. Interruptions would not be tolerated. “I was born in the fires of Orodruin surrounded by the stink of smoke and sulfur. The smell was unbelievable; it was a good four centuries before I rid myself of it entirely. For many days I thought I was alone, until I was reunited with my five brothers and sisters.”

A creak from Kili’s chair caught Bilbo’s attention. Bofur leaned against it, chomping on his pipe. “Did you hatch out of an egg?” he asked.

“Probably,” Bilbo said. “Can I continue?”

“Aye, don’t mind me,” Bofur said as he sat on the floor.

“Sauron desired dragons for his army, but he had unreliable control over the firedrakes and colddrakes of the north, unlike his master,” Bilbo said. “It caused him no end of frustration, so instead, he worked his magics on my poor ancestors until they became me.

“We were weaker and smaller than he had hoped, and drab green instead of a fierce black or fiery red — oh, he was very displeased about that — but we were the only clutch to survive to adulthood; we would have to suffice. War would soon be upon him. He taught us to be fierce, angry, and dumb. And for a time we were.”

Bilbo waited for the leading question, which Fili thankfully supplied within seconds. “Until what?”

“We began to change our skins. We didn’t know what we were doing. It just was a game to mock our handlers, where we made clumsy attempts at taking their shapes and voices to fool them. Word reached Sauron, as it always does, so he sent us human children and told us to assume their shapes. We ate them, mostly, myself included. The screaming was annoying.” Bilbo grinned toothily, enjoying the ill-masked horror and fascination on their faces.

As he took in their dismay, Bifur shuffled over, with Oin not a moment behind. “I was just telling these three my story,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “Would you like to join us?” After a moment of hesitation, Bifur sat while Oin dragged a chair over. “It would be remiss of me to simply throw you in the deep end of this sorry tale. Kili, would you mind catching our newcomers up?”

“Of course,” Kili said. Bilbo could not tell if he was made more excited or nervous by Bilbo’s story. “He was telling us that he was born in Mordor — one of six dragons — and that his _nadadan_ and _amadan_ and him started learning to skin-change.”

“Brevity is the soul of wit, I suppose,” Bilbo muttered, bemoaning the butchery of a delicately spun tale. He yawned. “But Kili is correct. We were given children of Men and told to learn all that they could teach us, including their forms. As young dragons, this was a tall order. I ate the first child they gave me, and the next after that. The third one made it as long as a week before I got frustrated and killed her. The fourth I grew fond of, and it was his form I learned to take.”

While he spoke, Ori and Dori had carried two cushions over and sat behind Bofur. Bilbo smiled welcomingly. He knew that he had a captive audience in these Dwarves as he had seen Ori scribbling furiously in that worn, leather-bound book of his. “Don’t you go one step closer to him,” Dori was hissing. “It isn’t natural! None of it!”

“You worry too much,” Ori returned. “Master Baggins won’t hurt us, else we’d already be dead. Right?”

“Correct,” said Bilbo. “Your brothers are in good hands, Master Dori.” Dori huffed and went back to speaking with Dwalin, who was still at the table, his head tilted slightly towards the fire. Thorin was nowhere to be seen.

Rather than trust the task to Kili again, Bilbo began from the beginning. His tale was interspersed with a yawn or two, but he was sure the tea would do a wonderful job of waking him back up.

Soon he reached the point where he had stopped before and continued, “The day that he and I were separated, I was introduced to my hoard. Three fine swords and a dagger, all forged in Gondolin. Some spell lay over them, or me, and before long — I don’t know how — I held them dearer than anything else in the world, even my kin. And myself.” Bilbo shuddered, more for effect than in actual horror. The swords still gleamed bright in his mind, beautiful even after their hold over him had faded. “Every night, Sauron’s minions would take the swords from me and scatter them on the battlefield. And every day, I would fight as if Morgoth possessed me to get them back. Nothing could stand between me and my hoard. With my sisters I would tear soldiers limb from limb. With my brothers I would cook them in their own armor.” He laughed fiercely, suddenly feeling very ferocious despite the fact that he was a small hobbit beneath a large pile of blankets. He yawned again. “I laid low warriors ... of old. I slew kings ... wiped out armies ... and any who dared to stand before me … knew my … my wrath.” Bilbo gave one more mighty yawn before his head slipped to his shoulder and he fell asleep.

* * *

Bilbo woke to Goldberry’s high, clear voice ringing out from the garden. He sat up abruptly, searching for signs of his hosts, Gandalf, or the company, but the hall was empty, save for the bright noon sun slanting in through the windows.

Someone had moved him to the floor and placed a pillow under his head, and there was a plate of food just out of reach. Bilbo was too sore to stand, so he wriggled towards it and wolfed it down.

As he licked the last of the current jam off his fingers, he began to think of his future. The company had seemed interested in his story last night, but he could not take that as a sign of acceptance. He didn’t really want to go home — especially now that he had been properly fed and had a chance to wash — but if staying with the company meant constantly looking over his shoulder, he would leave without hesitation.

He struggled to his feet and shuffled to the door. Beneath Goldberry’s song, he heard Dwarvish shouting and splashing, likely coming from the pool Bilbo had seen earlier. Well, no matter where he went, he wanted to wash off while he had the chance.

The sun was hot and bounced off of the scintillating surface of the stream in which the Dwarves were, for lack of a better word, playing. The stream fed into a wide pool that came up just above Dwalin’s waist. As Bilbo emerged, Dwalin was in the midst of pushing Kili under the water, laughing all the while, as Fili sat and braided Thorin’s hair while Dori did the same for Ori.

The water looked enticingly cool and none of the Dwarves’ weapons — or their clothes, for that matter — were within sight. It didn’t seem like going for a swim would kill him.

Bilbo sprinted towards the stream’s rocky shore, casting off the blanket he’d used to cover himself, then casting his off his Hobbit form altogether. He covered the last few yards in an enormous leap, landing belly-first in the cool water and diving as deep as he could go. He heard the muffled sounds of the Dwarves scrambling out of the water, but he paid them no heed.

He surfaced and submerged a few more times, undulating jerkily around the deepest parts until he felt satisfied. Then he dragged himself halfway onto land, rested his head upon the grass, and spread his wings to capture the sun’s warmth. His eyes drifted shut as the heat flooded his veins.

His peace did not last long; even when trying to be stealthy, Dwarves walked like a herd of cows.

“Is he asleep?” Kili whispered. Bilbo turned his head, cracking open an eye. Fili, Kili, and Ori stood a few feet away, staring down at him.

“Ki, we must have woken him up,” said Fili. “Sorry Master Baggins! We’ll be going.”

“Can I come closer?” Ori blurted.

Bilbo snorted, turning to lay on his stomach. Then he nodded, and the three dwarves scrambled down the rocky bank, nearly tripping over themselves in their eagerness. Kili and Fili instantly struck him with a barrage of questions before Ori silenced them.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

Bilbo shook his head.

“Yes or no questions it is,” Ori said, settling himself more comfortably on his boulder. For the next few minutes, Bilbo and Ori went back and forth, Bilbo answering with a shake of his head, a nod, or a shrug.

“Can I touch your scales?” Kili interrupted.

Bilbo shrugged. _Why not?_ Kili dove forward to run a hand down Bilbo’s shoulder. He laughed at the feeling of it. “It feels strange!” he exclaimed. “But not bad. Like a snake.” He rapped his knuckles against a scale. “Though your scales really _are_ like armor.” Fili and Ori came forward, more cautious. Fili patted Bilbo’s neck carefully while Ori gave the base of his wing an experimental tap.

A deep rumbling brewed in Bilbo’s chest. Both sets of eyelids slid shut.

The three Dwarves leapt back. “Are you _purring?_ ” Ori asked.

Bilbo nodded.

* * *

An hour later, Ori was still asking questions. Now they were about Bilbo’s physiology and it was difficult for him to answer, because he truly did not know if he had two livers. Fili was leaning against Bilbo’s neck, while Kili stretched out between Bilbo’s wings. If the other Dwarves had any complaints, they did not voice them.

“You keep moving,” Ori complained. “It’s difficult to draw you if you’re moving.”

Bilbo huffed, stirring the pages of Ori’s sketchbook, and rested his head upon his foot. This trapped Fili between Bilbo’s neck and his leg, but he appeared not to be bothered.

A distant yelp of surprise rang over the valley. “By Durin, what _is_ that?”

Bilbo lifted his head to stare at the newcomers. Nori stood at the crest of a hill hedging in the pool, with Balin puffing up behind him.

“Ori! Fili! Kili!” Balin shouted. “Get away from there!”

“It’s a dragon!” Gloin exclaimed.

“Dragon?” Oin said from behind him. “My hearing _has_ gone! Dragons don’t live— Mahal!”

Bombur brought up the rear, guiding a brace of ponies laden with baggage. He stopped so abruptly that the lead pony collided with his back.

“Balin,” Fili complained. “It’s perfectly safe. It’s just Master Baggins.” Neither Fili nor Kili seemed inclined to move, but Ori left his things where they were and tore up the hill to greet his brother. Bilbo reached around, took Kili’s shirt collar between his teeth, and dragged him off his back.

The Dwarves sprinted down the hill, weapons half-drawn. No doubt they feared for Kili’s safety, but he landed in the water with little more than a loud complaint. Bilbo favored Kili’s would-be rescuers with an expectant eye, then shook off his dragon form.

“Well, I’m glad to see you that haven’t stabbed my friend,” Gandalf called down from the hilltop. “It seems that some of you have listened to me at last!”

“Quite hasty folk they are,” Bombadil agreed from out of sight.

“Well I’ll be,” Balin muttered as Bilbo strode forward to skin back into his clothes. “So Gandalf told it true?”

“Gandalf is a great many things,” Bilbo said, lacing his breeches and buttoned his shirt. “But a liar is not one of them. And isn’t it good to see you! Have you only just come?” None of the Dwarves seemed to know what to make of him, which suited him just fine. He was, after all, unlike anything in Middle Earth, and expected to be treated as such. Bombur coughed nervously, until Balin broke the awkward silence.

“That we did,” he said politely. “Our … host found us on the road.”

“Aye,” Oin said. “And our ponies.” Bilbo found that disappointing. He had no love for ponies.

“The halfling is a dragon!” Gloin blurted. “Are we nae going to discuss that?”

“Gandalf said he isn’t the evil kind,” Nori said. “Could be useful to have a big fire-breather in our company.”

“Thorin?” Balin asked, and all heads turned to their leader.

“He has only acted in our best interests,” Thorin said.

The company — and Bilbo — eagerly waited for more, but it seemed Thorin had said all that he wished. “Gandalf will have word of the road ahead. Come, Master Baggins. Make yourself decent.”

* * *

With thirteen Dwarves, a hobbit, a wizard, and the master of the house crowded into Bombadil’s home, Bilbo found himself firmly wedged between Bifur and Bofur with an inch to spare. That inch was caused by Bifur leaning almost across Dori so he did not touch Bilbo.

The news that Gandalf brought was not as well received as the results of Bombadil’s errand. While their host had returned with their companions and the ponies that had run off in the Barrowdowns, Gandalf only brought them trouble. The Last Bridge, their original path, was currently held by orcs.

“Dirhael and his rangers will try to open the road for us, but they will need time that we cannot give,” Gandalf said.

“Has anyone seen the orcs and lived to tell the tale?” Thorin asked.

“No,” Gandalf said. “The rangers guess there are about thirty of them, all mounted on wargs.” He glared at Thorin. “Who did you tell of your quest?”

“No one beyond my close kin,” Thorin said.

“Well, I have no doubt that these wargs meant to stop you from reaching Erebor,” Gandalf said.

“Are you calling Mum a traitor?” Fili asked, his fingers casually hooking under the lining of his jacket, where Bilbo knew he hid at least two knives.

“Not at all,” Gandalf said hurriedly. “I suspect the Enemy has been monitoring your movements for some time. We have regained the element of surprise due to our gracious host, but it will not last if we continue on our current route. Now, we will make for the Gap of Rohan. It is less direct, I must admit, but it is the safest way. We will have friends from Rohan to Erebor to aid us.”

“ _You_ will have friends,” Thorin replied. “What makes you so sure that these friends will aid us in our quest? I propose a different route.” He pulled the map away from Bilbo and stabbed his finger on three tall peaks drawn halfway down the Misty Mountains. “We make for Khazad-dûm. The halls of our fathers will keep our errand secret.”

The arguing began anew. As discreetly as he could, Bilbo slipped off of the bench and crept outside.

He laid on the grass and enjoyed a pipe, sending numerous smoke rings up to dance above the roof of the house. Bilbo was watching the vestiges of his latest creation vanish into the winds when he heard the door open, then shut. The footsteps were distinctly Dwarvish, but Bilbo was upwind and could not scent which one it was.

Thorin settled beside him with a heavy sigh. “May I join you, Master Baggins?”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bilbo asked. That Thorin would want to go from arguing with Gandalf to smoking with Bilbo came as something of a surprise. But that was what he wanted, as Thorin next removed his pipe from his pocket. “Very well, but I’m not sharing.”

Thorin fished out his own pipeweed. “Dragons are dragons,” Thorin muttered. “I thought that if I was seen with you, Gandalf would not try to carry on with his tired arguments.”

“He does want us to get along,” Bilbo pointed out.

Rather than respond, Thorin puffed on his pipe despondently and gazed across the valley. He seemed to be brooding, which looked to require a good deal of focus, so Bilbo let him be.

Eventually, Thorin spoke. “What reason could you possibly have for going on this quest?”

This time it was Bilbo’s turn to frown and take a deep tug of pipeweed. “I’m not very sure, myself. I know that I would love to try my strength against a firedrake of the north — no true dragon, mind you. But I don’t have a hoard of my own and a fourteenth share of yours would do nicely.” The thought of forming that bond again filled Bilbo’s chest with a familiar sense of warmth, like settling into a pleasant bath at the end of a long day.

If Thorin was satisfied by this answer, he didn’t show it. “Is it so important to you? This hoard?”

“I would kill for my hoard, and have done so before. That should be answer enough,” Bilbo sniffed. The youngest Dwarves had asked him a great deal many questions before, wearing Bilbo’s patience thin.

“What is it like?” Thorin pressed.

The question gave him pause, but needed to only think on it for a moment. “It’s much like being in love, I suppose. A hollow, empty sort of love, but love all the same. The hoard was meant to bring us peace, to lull us into submission, and that it did well.” Bilbo laughed bitterly. “As much as it was a weapon used against me, I long for it. But maybe that’s what love is, in the end.”

Thorin had no answer for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's ancient relatives were small, lizards that gradually evolved to larger sizes and flying squirrel-like wings for gliding. They had a symbiotic relationship with photosynthetic microorganisms and needed sun, heat, food, and water to survive, as does Bilbo. His breath weapon is pure body heat (he runs very, very hot lmao). Under Sauron's influence, his ancestors grew larger and capable of self-propelled flight. Bilbo is about fifty feet long, mostly neck and tail. [Here](http://49.media.tumblr.com/52e5b7fc621aab6de424a0307a886d0c/tumblr_mkshylieSc1rr6gt0o1_r1_500.gif) is the inspiration for the wing physiology, an animation by [Todd Lockwood.](http://www.tolo.biz/2013/01/29/dragon-animations) Mudkippy and I are bio majors so we live for this shit, so I'd be happy to go into intimate detail (I spent like an hour figuring out scale material, breath temp., and body temp. we're serious about this shit).
> 
> Ok so someone asked and mudkippy and I both responded with the different info we dug up so I'll post that here.
> 
>  **V:** A lot of this is in comparison to Smaug because it was a good starting point since he's our canon dragon. So for Smaug I determined that his fire is about 950F (510C) and his scales are a biological equivalent of kevlar (super durable but has a relatively low (about 1,000F/540C depending on how good it is) melting point). Bilbo's scales are a biological equivalent of calcium silicate, which has a high melting point but is more brittle. His breath thing clocks in around an average of 2,000F (1,093C) but can go as high as 2,600F (1,427C) with minimal stress. Bilbo's got a snake scale sort of thing going, and does need to shed every thousand years or so. He's mostly green, about 50% shades of green, 40% greys/browns, and 10% reds. He sort of looks like a seventh grade science project of what would happen if you glue wings to a ferret, he's got relatively short legs and corners terribly. Is also super wriggly. If I remember more or find my notes I'll add more!
> 
>  **M:** While Bilbo gets calcium from eating bones (which he can do, as long as he doesn't try swallowing them whole), when he sheds, he needs to consume silica to grow the replacement scales. You could say he even ... craves that mineral.
> 
> Bilbo also corners terribly because his ancestors had considerably smaller wings (again, only useful for gliding) and the first thing Sauron did was make them bigger. With bigger wings come bigger muscles, so the joints in Bilbo's front legs are effectively constrained by the mass of muscle surrounding his wing joint. He can move his legs back and forth with ease, but splaying them out wide is difficult and painful. Hence, he has to kind of hop around corners unless he wants to fall over. (His back legs have no such problems.) And Bilbo's ancestors had wide-set legs like you might find on a lizard, but, again, Sauron put them under his body because aesthetic, which only exacerbated the problem. He can run 20-25 mph and looks like an especially bouncy ferret when he does it.
> 
> Bilbo is roughly 50 ft. long. Of that, 17 ft. is body and 33 ft. is tail, for balance. Between his scales and wings, he's top heavy, so he has to have all that extra weight in the back to prevent himself from falling over. About half the tail is bone-stiff and acts as a rudder when he's flying or swimming. The end is more flexible, but not prehensile or whiplike.


	4. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company leaves the safety of Tom Bombadil's home and ventures into the world of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **V:** mudkippy and I went back and forth making this chapter more gay and then less gay. Our motto is to start a chapter at maximum homosexuality. It's far easier to tone it down than to make it gayer (or so mudkippy says. She doubts me too much.)
> 
>  **M:** If I didn't doubt you we would end up with 10k chapters full of sentences like, _"Here he was, kissing a man, touching his butt."_
> 
> oh my god that was one time

They spent a week at Bombadil’s hut, waiting for tidings of the orc pack. Bilbo enjoyed the respite, and wasted his days swimming, sleeping, and pocketing interesting trinkets that Bombadil had left lying about and wouldn’t miss. The Dwarves chafed at the delay, and their pacing had begun to wear paths in Bombadil’s floor. Finally, Gandalf admitted that Thorin should delay no longer, and the company prepared to leave.

The youngest three were ecstatic when they saw Bilbo packing, and a few of the other Dwarves spared him a nod or a smile. Bilbo had refused to isolate himself, and a few cheerful meals and afternoons spent splashing around in the pool had been enough to convince the majority of his companions that he was no threat. There were holdouts and Bilbo knew even the kinder ones would behead him at the first sign of suspicious behavior, but he felt in no imminent danger.

That surprised him. In retrospect, a week away from near-constant danger must have addled his brain, but at the time, he admitted that he was curious to see what lay ahead for the company. It might make a good story.

Despite Bombadil’s warm farewell, Bilbo thought the Man was quite glad to be rid of the “young and hasty folk”, as he referred to them when speaking to Gandalf.

“May the wending roads bring you back to my door!” he called from the threshold of his cottage. “Or, perhaps, to some better fortune.”

The Dwarves waved in return before turning their ponies south. The beasts were despondent, as they had gone from cropping the rich grass to carrying riders and their supplies.

Balin had purchased three more ponies in Bree, but they were still two ponies short and, burdened as they were, riding double would have overtaxed them. Balin had asked Bilbo if he could carry the excess as a dragon, to which Bilbo had disdainfully replied, “I am a Servant of Evil, not your pack animal” and that had put an end to _that_. It was well worth Gandalf’s blistering lecture for openly using that label.

So instead of overloading the ponies, Bilbo and two other Dwarves would walk, while the rest rode. The pace was still grueling, but Balin’s knees and Oin’s back meant it was manageable even for Bilbo.

The soft hills of Bombadil’s demesne vanished quickly, giving way to lands that had once been the Kingdom of Cardolan. Bilbo remembered its rise and fall well; even the peaceful Shire had not been sheltered from the wars that had torn the three daughters of Arnor asunder. The last that Bilbo had heard of Cardolan — more than a thousand years ago — it had been a desolate land unfit to support even a mouse.

While Bilbo saw smoke rising from distant chimneys, he found little else to disprove the report. Nothing grew except grey grass and black trees twisted by the cold winds gusting down from the Misty Mountains. There was something about this blighted place that eroded any hope or happiness.

Gandalf hoped the orcs would feel the same way, yet they still took precautions. They traveled only at night and kept a heavy watch during the day. The flat terrain meant they would see the pack from miles away, but also that they would have no hope of outrunning them or finding suitable cover.

But despite everyone’s worst fear, they saw neither hide nor hair of anything other than a few scrawny voles and, slowly, the company began to relax once more. Bilbo did his part to lighten the mood by acquiescing to Ori and Kili’s demands for stories.

“Did you know Durin?” asked Kili.

Bilbo sighed. “No. I did not know Durin.”

“Durin II?” Fili put in.

“I knew none of the Durins. And may I be lucky enough to never know the next, or the one after that,” Bilbo snapped. “It’s not natural, this Durin the Deathless.”

“But you like the story of Glorfindel,” Ori pointed out.

“It’s a masterpiece!”

“Only because he’s an _Elf_ ,” Kili muttered.

“It’s a far better story than any I’ve heard from the Dwarves,” Gandalf said.

“When was the last time you listened to a Dwarf story?” Gloin demanded.

“Well, I would not be opposed to one right now. It seems Bilbo has been doing most of the talking and he ought to be getting thirsty.”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Oin cautioned. “He’ll turn around and tell the Elves!”

Gandalf blustered and cajoled, but the Dwarves were stubborn, and perhaps a little vindictive. Gandalf’s horse carried nothing more than the wizard himself.

“Bilbo, tell us about the war,” Ori insisted. “You never even told us how you became free, or a Hobbit.”

“Fine, fine,” Bilbo said, waving a flippant hand. Inwardly, he was pleased at the opportunity to tell more of his story. He was not above vanity. “Ever aware of our failings, Sauron refused to send us forth unless the Black Gates were directly threatened. We did not want to fight for him, of course; we would have been just as happy killing orcs as Men or Elves.” _Or Dwarves._ “Then Sauron put the Last Alliance between us and our hoards — my swords, if you remember — and we had no choice.”

All the Dwarves were listening closely, even if it initially appeared that they weren’t. The sparse hills of Minhiriath offered no other entertainment.

“My siblings and I harassed the army for days as they made camp on the plains of Dagorlad, burning their food, driving their mounts mad, and killing anyone who wandered out of bowshot. It was a proper battle, make no mistake! Everyone wanted to be known as a dragonslayer and every time we appeared, a passel of fools would sprint out of their tents, ready to make a name for themselves.” Bilbo snorted. “We ate them by the dozens.”

He let his words settle over them. That would certainly forestall any attempts to murder him. Not that he thought that anyone would, although he was still leery around Bifur.

“On the first proper day of battle, the Elves under Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm, broke from Gil-galad and made a futile assault against the gate. Sauron loosed my brother and me to halt him and it was a matter of minutes before we had turned the tide against the Elves. Just at our moment of victory, my brother fell, slain by Oropher. When I saw Oropher’s blade — _my_ blade, Orcrist — wet with his blood, I fell into a rage, killing Oropher and his household guard without thought. I reclaimed Orcrist, but Oropher’s vile son escaped with another piece of my hoard.”

“My handlers called me back, but I refused to return. They threatened to destroy Orcrist, which would just as surely destroy me, and my battle rage returned. I used every bit of cruelty Sauron had taught me to turn against his lackeys. And when they were all dead and in several pieces, I gathered up what remained of my hoard and fled. From there, my story only becomes more interesting. I met Gandalf—” The wizard nodded “—and he introduced me to hobbits, who taught me the pleasures of gardening. If they weren’t so short-lived, I would gladly take my prize-winning tomato seeds as my hoard! Much more useful than some mouldering old swords,” Bilbo said.

Ori nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, I’ve already made extensive notes on your tomatoes.”

“Good. They deserve to be remembered,” Bilbo said. “This will be the first year in thousands that they haven’t competed in Hobbiton’s annual fair. That imbecile Otho Sackville-Baggins might win at last.”

“And your family?” Thorin asked. “What of them?”

Bilbo was so surprised he had bothered to listen that he nearly forgot himself. “That is my only regret — not learning what happened to them.”

* * *

They reached Tharbad as the swollen sun lay low on the horizon, lazing atop distant hills. At first, Bilbo did not realize they had arrived; it seemed that they were approaching a stand of enormous boulders sitting on the riverbank. It was only when Bilbo saw the makeshift gate wedged between the rocks that he suspected there was something more behind it.

Bilbo eagerly awaited more food and another bath, but it seemed that it was not to be. The guards instantly distrusted the Dwarves and appeared to recognize Thorin and Balin. Then, the Men sighted Bilbo and were presented with a new quandary: whether to let the “goblin-child” enter the city. Before Bilbo could incinerate the lot of them, Gandalf informed them he was a Dwarf child and flipped them each a gold coin. The guards bit into them with their remaining teeth and that was enough to waive any issues.

Tharbad was, beyond a doubt, the meanest town that Bilbo had ever seen. It was scarcely more than a glorified hamlet, with perhaps fifty buildings at most. They were made of mud brick and stone, and their upper stories drooped over the streets as if they were melting, crowding out any natural light like choking weeds. To illuminate the streets, the people had set out tallow candles that stank horrendously when burned, clashing with the reek of the middens and of unwashed Men and animals. Feral dogs and pigs outnumbered people, and the rats outstripped all of them.

As for Tharbad’s denizens, it seemed as though they were made of congealed cruelty and anguish. Bilbo did not see one face without pox scars, and most had filthy, tangled hair and arms stained to the elbow with blood, dirt, or both. Men lounged in packs outside taverns, glaring at any passers-by with hungry red-rimmed eyes. The women were little better; Bilbo watched one set her mastiff on a boy who stole a slice of bread from her stall. His screams faded into the cacophony of torment.

“When do we leave?” Bilbo asked in an undertone.

“We’ll cross Tharbad’s bridge in the morning,” Balin said, his mouth set in a grim line. “It’s too dangerous to attempt by day.”

Thorin found lodging in a seedy inn that squatted on the riverside. _The Yellow Wineskin_ it was called, though Bilbo was disappointed to find that they had no wine. Bilbo was not sure what they were trying to serve him, but he was positive it was not wine. “The Yellow Pisspot, more like,” he heard Dwalin grumble as they all pushed their way up the stairs. Thorin had only been able to secure two rooms for them, and each at an exorbitant price. Gandalf had begged off staying with him, claiming he had business. The company suspected that “business” was finding a nicer establishment.

“I don’t understand this price,” Bilbo said as he glanced about the cramped room. There were two narrow cots unevenly set in the packed dirt floor. The roof sagged heavily over the room and Bilbo did not like the look the puddles half-concealed under the sparsely scattered rushes. For one thing, they had not been supplied with a chamber pot.

“You get used to it,” Nori said bitterly. “We’re Dwarves, after all. Hidden gold sewn into the linings of our cloaks.”

“If only it were true,” said Ori. “Imagine the colors of ink I could get with a coat’s worth of gold.”

“I claim the bed!” shouted Bofur, crashing onto one of the cots. It cracked alarmingly, but despite its shoddy construction, remained standing. Bifur took the other with much more caution, going so far as to lick the wood.

“You’re welcome to it,” Dori said, coming up behind his brothers. “There’s probably enough lice in that mattress to suck a Dwarf dry.”

Bilbo shuddered in horror.

“We’ll see if they can bite through my skin first,” Bofur said. He carefully hung his hat from the rafters, safely out of reach of anything with six legs. The others inched into the room, and between them and their belongings, it was a tight fit indeed. The entire floor was covered in their packs — but at least Bilbo would have something to sleep on. “I thought the innkeeper gave us a fair price, considering.”

“Considering what?” Bilbo asked.

“Considering,” Nori said, tapping the side of his nose and winking conspiratorially.

Then the Dwarves were out of the room faster than Bilbo had thought possible, leaving him alone with Bifur.

“Do you know what this is about?” Bilbo asked him.

Bifur did not deign to answer, instead pulling out his squirrel toy and beginning to carve. Somehow, Bifur had made the burled wood look like fur, and its eyes had been polished so they shone like they might on a living creature. If not for the unfinished paws, Bilbo would have thought it was real.

“That’s beautiful,” Bilbo said, meaning it.

Bifur shook his head and bent to his task. Bilbo left him to it, heading back to the tavern, where he would no doubt find his compatriots and a healthy dose of trouble.

The room was packed to the rafters with rowdy big folk. Bilbo gagged; between the stench of their bodies and the smoky fires set into the poorly mortared walls, he could scarcely breathe. He tried to listen for the company, but that was impossible over the raucous banter. Off in one corner, a pair of Men deep in their cups bawled a lewd drinking song, to general applause. Even another Man emptying his tankard over their heads did not stop them.

There was really only one way to cope with all this: Bilbo was going to get well and properly drunk.

It would be a mighty undertaking. Dragons could hold their wine better even than hobbits, and Bilbo emptied five pints in the span of five minutes without feeling the effects. He felt slightly dizzy only after Kili challenged him to a drinking contest, which Bilbo won handily after quaffing twenty-seven ales.

While Kili drooled on the floor, Bilbo volunteered to buy another round for the company, which he suspected did more to win their favor than any stories he had ever told.

He elbowed, shoved, and crawled his way across the common room, only to realize he was too short to see over the bar. He clambered onto the stool and had a moment to savor his victory before it splintered beneath him.

Bilbo rolled upright and cursed at the traitorous seat.

“It seems the fierce Bilbo Baggins has met his match at last,” Thorin said dryly, appearing from between two Men.

“What’s it to you?” Bilbo demanded.

Thorin crossed his arms. “I heard you promised the whole company a round. I thought you might want help carrying it.”

“I’ll balance it on my tail or something.”

“The first thing you need to do is order,” Thorin said. “ _If_ you can see over the counter.”

“I could see over your head if I chose, Master — _hic!_ — Dwarf, and swallow you from braids to boots without any indigestion,” Bilbo retorted. The loud hiccup ruined any pretense of a threat, as Thorin seemed to find it amusing.

“Order your ales, Baggins. I will assist you in carrying them.”

“You order them,” Bilbo said mulishly. “I’m too short, as you so generously pointed out.”

Thorin glanced around for listeners. “Not unless you want the mugs spat in.”

“Because you did something to the people of Tharbad,” Bilbo said. Thorin scowled. “Oh, stop dancing around the issue! No one likes you here, which is unsurprising considering your disposition, but they seem to have a grudge of some kind. In fact, the two Men in the far corner haven’t taken their eyes off you since you came over.”

“I know.” Thorin shifted so that he had them in his periphery and the bar to his back. “We should not have stayed here.”

Bilbo stepped between Thorin and escape. “What did you do?”

Thorin looked longingly towards the company, somewhere over Bilbo’s shoulder. “If you can gleefully confess of the murder of thousands, I suppose I can tell you this: our exile pushed us to a place so dark we had scarcely conceived it before Erebor’s destruction. I did things I am not proud of, but what choice did I have? I would not see my people reduced like those rangers. They are the Dunedain, scions of Elendil and Isildor! Theirs was the land from Mithlond to Harad, but now they are a shadow of a shadow of their ancestors’ glory.” Thorin’s eyes seemed to glow. “That will never happen to the Line of Durin. I would gladly die before that happened.”

Bilbo refused to be cowed by Thorin’s fervor, impressive as it was. Perhaps for the first time, Bilbo saw him not as a wanderer with aspirations, but as a true king. “I see.”

“Tharbad asked for swords of fine Dwarven make,” Thorin continued. “We would deliver swords just strong enough to survive until their first battle, then not long after. I left as soon as I was paid, and I suspect the people of Tharbad have since learned they were cheated.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said. As he did, he could see the subtle signs of tension bleed from Thorin. “I understand. After all, I’ve had to do far worse to survive. It would not be fair of me to judge you for your petty crimes when I have the blood of thousands on my hands. I only hope that it won’t inconvenience us too badly.”

“I doubt it, so long as we are vigilant,” Thorin said. “Order your ale. Dwalin has been known to rip arms of their sockets if too much time passes between his drinks.”

“You should get back to the company,” Bilbo said, pushing him gently. It was still enough to rock Thorin back on his heels. “More vigilance and all that. I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t be alone either.”

Bilbo examined his nails. “I wouldn’t mind a bar brawl right now. After all, it seems your reputations here can’t be made any worse.”

“Careful,” Thorin said lightly. He smiled. “Don’t take too long.”

Bilbo hauled himself onto a stool and bought himself an ale, scanning the room for threats. There were many, and all were perilously close to his Dwarves.

Yet it seemed that these threats were more interested in Bilbo.

“You. Boy,” said a voice. Bilbo looked up to see that he was all but surrounded by three Men. _So much for caution._

“Can I help you?” Bilbo asked sweetly, trying to emulate the innocence of childhood.

The youngest of the three was a weedy youth with the wispy beginnings of a beard on his chin. He spoke next. “Perhaps,” said Beard. He clapped Bilbo on the shoulder as he sat in the adjacent seat. Then he swiped Bilbo’s tankard from his hands and tossed it to the barkeeper. “Another for the Dwarf lad, I think!” he shouted. His companions cheered.

The other Men were tall and short. The taller was a barrel of a man with thick arms, the shorter a pile of skin and bones. Bilbo named them Barrel and Stick, respectively. They seemed to defer to Beard.

“What’s your name, lad?” asked Beard.

“My name?” Bilbo squeaked. A name! He hadn’t thought of a name. Desperate for a pseudonym, he looked among the dwarves of the company. Nori and Thorin were the first two he laid eyes on. “Norin.”

“Norin!” roared Barrel as he shoved the tankard into Bilbo’s hands. “A name to drink to. To Norin!” he shouted. Ale sloshed onto Bilbo’s hands as he crashed his tankard against Stick’s.

“Where are your parents, lad?” Barrel asked. Bilbo tried to recall whether Gandalf had specified back at the gate, but he could not. This left him free to pick amongst the members of the company. The potential for mischief was too great to pass.

Bilbo pointed to where Kili and Dwalin were singing about a dwarf woman who could do phenomenal things with her beard. “Over there.”

The men conferred for a moment. “Which one’s your father?”

Bilbo pointed to Kili just as the Dwarf spun away and tripped over a chair.

“So the big one, the one with the tattoos…?”

“My mother.”

“So _that’s_ a dwarf lass,” said Barrel. Dwalin had hauled Kili up and slung him over his shoulder.

The others guffawed. “Still want to take a tumble with her?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Bilbo muttered.

Barrel squinted. “What was that, boy?”

“Nothing! Only that my mama’s more likely to feed you your cock than let it anywhere near her,” Bilbo replied. He’d sickened of their questions and the act was exhausting. Lying for Gandalf was nowhere near as fun as Bilbo thought it would be. Not to mention their complete lack of respect for his Dwarves.

“What was that?” asked Barrel. As the rest of his companions laughed, Barrel reddened, both in anger and embarrassment, and Bilbo’s Hobbitish side screamed for him to teach them all some manners. His dragon side told him how.

“I doubt you’d need to worry, you probably wouldn’t even—oh, hullo Mother!”

Despite being a foot shorter, Dwalin still managed to loom over the Men. He showed no sign of having heard his new title, but also showed no sign of having _not_ heard it.

“Come, lad,” Dwalin rumbled. He slung a protective — no, _matronly_ \-- arm over Bilbo’s shoulder and led him back through the crowd to where the Company sat. As they walked, he leaned over and said, “Mother?”

“I wasn’t given much time to think on it,” Bilbo said by way of explanation. “I hope you’re not too offended.”

“Offended?” Dwalin said. When Bilbo looked up, he saw that Dwalin looked … touched? “Never! To be thought fit for motherhood is a great compliment among Dwarves. I never knew you thought so highly of me.”

“Ah,” Bilbo said, searching desperately for a way to respond. “But of course!”

For that, he received a hearty slap on the back. “I misjudged you, Master Baggins. Forgive me.”

“Naturally,” Bilbo replied, confused. Luckily, they were quickly absorbed back into the company.

Bilbo settled somewhere along the periphery, listening to snatches of banter while monitoring any passers-by with hawkish attentiveness. The company, bless their drunk hearts, made attempts to draw him into another drinking contest, but the danger suddenly seemed too great. .

When the Company began to split, filtering towards the stairs and their rooms in small groups, Bilbo decided to follow. With great, leaping bounds he sped up down the narrow hall, eager to escape the tavern’s denizens. He sighed a great sigh of relief when he came to the door and pushed it open.

The first thing Bilbo saw was a Dwarf rummaging around the bags. Specifically, Bilbo’s bag. Something ferociously jealous rose up in him, and was only quelled by the familiarity of the silhouette. “Nori,” Bilbo said amiably, “is there something you need?”

“Ah, Bilbo,” Nori said, straightening up with a guilty expression on his face. “No, no, I need nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s my bag,” he said through clenched teeth. As he spoke, he advanced to block Nori’s path to the door. Nori sheepishly held out his hands, in which sat a pouch of Bilbo’s best pipeweed and two of his loveliest pipes.

“Now, I wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find a good way to do that,” said Nori. “I’d snatched them back in your hole — and a very nice hole, it was. Only, now I can’t find it in me to keep them. So I thought I’d return them, make it right.”

Bilbo strode forward to take the pipes and the pouch. He looked between them and Nori, then handed one back to him. “Well, it seems that I have come into an unexpected wealth of pipeweed. Perhaps you could be convinced to share it with me?”

“If I must,” said Nori, grinning. Bilbo sat at the edge of the bed and packed his pipe before handing the pouch over to his companion.

“Let me give something back,” Nori said. He pulled a knife from his coat, flipped it so that he held the blade, and offered the handle to Bilbo.

“I don’t care where you came from or what you’ve done,” Nori said, “it’s simple: you look out for me and my brothers, and I’ll look out for you.” 

Bilbo cautiously took it. “Sounds like a fair deal.”

Nori snorted. “Tharbad’s a rough town.” He pointed at Bilbo. “I expect you’ll be holding up your end of the deal before the quest’s over. And keep the knife. If I didn’t know you were a dragon I’d have your purse faster than you could blink… Say, Bilbo. Have your eyes always been blue?”

“Blue? No, no, they were green last I checked,” Bilbo said. He was paying more attention to lighting his pipe.

“You may want to check again, then.”

Bilbo inhaled, lighting his pipe, and breathed out a smoky puff of air. He hopped from the bed and went to his things, pulling his shortsword from where he had hidden it in his bedroll. The scant light from the candles glinted off of the blade as Bilbo angled it until he could see his reflection. Nothing had changed but the color of his eyes, once green and now a very familiar blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **V:** >:3c We have an au of our au in which [dragon!Bilbo](http://mudkippy.tumblr.com/post/128086790776/kelgrid-be-safe-tiny-dragon) is about the size of a Maine Coon cat.


	5. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company flies from danger to danger as they travel to Khazad-dûm.

Sleep was impossible to find in their squalid room. The Dwarves’ snoring was bad enough, but Bilbo could also hear the rats gnawing at the walls, the bats chittering in the attic, and the cockroaches scuttling on the floor — and sometimes on _him_. Lice crawled through his hair and into his clothing, and every few minutes he would rub his skin raw to rid himself of their sharp bites.

All in all, it was probably the worst night — to date — of Bilbo’s entire life. The only thing that could possibly make it worse was, perhaps, being robbed.

Footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway and stopped at the threshold of Bilbo’s room. Bilbo reached for Nagtelch, expecting the worst until he heard a knock, then Fíli’s muffled voice. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

Bilbo sprang to his feet and opened the door. “I thought we were waiting for Gandalf.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Fíli said, stepping past. “We’re going to Khazad-dûm, with or without him.”

“Gandalf isn’t coming?”

“Why would he need to?” Fíli asked, grinning. “We have a dragon!”

“But…” Bilbo ground his teeth, caught between his pride and admitting he could not protect them as well as the wizard. He did not like the sound of this Khazad-dûm place, but he supposed he could manage against a few goblins and their ilk. “Oh, very well.”

Fíli clapped him on the shoulder. “Knew we could rely on you. Help me wake them — no, let me wake Nori. He has his other hand on a knife.”

The others were quick to rise and it was not long before they were silently filing downstairs to the stables, where the other half of their company waited with their readied ponies.

It was still utterly dark when they reached the streets of Tharbad. At Thorin’s behest, they wore their hoods far over their faces, but the only attention they attracted was from a few hungry dogs. Still, no one breathed easily until the entire company had safely passed Tharbad’s ramshackle gates.

They rode through breakfast and into lunch, determined to put the accursed city behind them. By afternoon, they were all in high spirits, but it did not last. The ground turned into marshland, and their steady march into a hopeless slog as the rank muck sucked at their feet. Gnats the size of hummingbirds whined around their heads, biting at any exposed skin; the company alternated holding their hands out for balance and beating the gnats away. Worse, the sedge did not take a spark and they could not dry their clothes.

“Is there no road?” Dori demanded as he hauled Ori out of the mud.

“Not one that we want to follow,” Thorin said. “Going through Swanfleet will shield us from unfriendly eyes.”

“I thought that was the point of going through Khazad-dûm,” Bofur said.

“Never hurts to be careful,” Balin said evenly, hacking at a marsh plant standing in their path.

“It hurts to be chewed on by these suckers,” Nori said.

Bilbo squashed a gnat in his fist and uncurled his sticky fingers to reveal a blood-smeared palm.

“Two more days, two more days,” Ori repeated. It had become his mantra of late.

“It might as well be two years,” Oin said. “There’s no end to this!”

Fíli sloshed up to them, putting one hand on Oin’s shoulder and one on Ori’s. “Uncle wouldn’t lead us through Swanfleet unless he has good reason. We must trust him.”

They all looked to Thorin’s unbending back. He seemed to be the only one unaffected by their surroundings. He burned with restless energy, pausing only to say an encouraging word to a floundering Dwarf or to pull a recalcitrant pony from the muck. Even during breaks, he paced as if he would not allow himself to stop until he reached Erebor.

After four harrowing days, they escaped Swanfleet. They made camp soon after reaching solid ground. It was only early afternoon, but no one seemed to mind.

By now, everyone’s chores were a matter of routine. Fíli and Kíli watched the ponies and kept a lookout, Bombur cooked, and Glóin minded the fire. The others first set up camp, then began the eternal tasks of mending clothing, weapons, packs, themselves, and anything else that had become damaged during the day. Bilbo and Balin usually fetched the water; today, it was drawn from the meandering river that dribbled into Swanfleet a mile downstream.

“That’s the Zudkhân, or Glanduin,” Balin said as they hauled their full buckets up the riverbank. “We’ll follow it all the way to the doorstep of Khazad-dûm.”

“How many leagues is that?” Bilbo panted.

“Forty leagues, as the raven flies, but I expect it’ll be closer to forty-five after we wind our way through the foothills.”

They dumped the water near Bombur and sat around the fire to catch their breath.

“I don’t suppose there are any nice inns along the way,” Bilbo said.

“Few live in these parts,” Bofur said. “Or so I’ve been told.” He spat out the grass stem he had been chewing. “Bifur, you’ve been through here before.”

Bifur looked up from his latest woodcarving project just long enough to glare at Bilbo. The Dwarves probably thought he was a pampered brat, and they were right. There was no reason adventures had to be so unpleasant.

“I’ve been through too, I’m not keen to repeat it,” Dori grumbled. “The whole land stinks of Elves and their magic. Makes me itch.”

“There are Elves in these parts?" Bilbo asked nervously.

“Not anymore,” Balin said.

“Well, we’ll be getting back into the mountains soon.” Glóin raked the coals with his bare hand until they glowed red. “I hate traveling through the lowlands. I never feel like we’re actually moving.”

“Oh, I agree,” Bofur said, kicking off his soggy boots. “But mountains means goblins, and goblins means there won’t be any game for miles.”

“There will be towns on the other side of the Misty Mountains,” Balin reassured them. “We can trade there.”

Kíli gave a shout of alarm and pointed to the northern horizon. Their heads whipped around in time to catch several wargs disappearing behind distant rocks.

“They’ve found us,” Thorin said, picking up his saddle. “Come! We will not rest until nightfall.”

His urgency was infectious, and, by sunset, they had traveled twice the distance they had the day previously. Their necks became sore from constantly looking over their shoulders, but they saw no further sign of their pursuers. The night, however, was rent with howls.

Bilbo was not frightened of some oversized dogs, but the eerie sound twisted his stomach into knots. He had not heard it since the Fell Winter, when he had spent many miserable months in Brandybuck Hall while the wolves of Gundabad scratched at the door.

“How far away are they?” Ori asked.

“Hour, at least,” Dwalin said. “The echoes make them sound closer.”

“They have the scent,” Balin said grimly. “It will be a hard trek to Khazad-dûm.”

“Do they know where we’re going?” Bilbo asked. “It doesn’t seem like there are many other ways to cross the Misty Mountains hereabouts.”

“They might suspect we’re making for the Redhorn Pass,” said Óin.

“It’s less than five leagues from Khazad-dûm,” Dwalin said. “Even if they think we will try Barazinbar, they’ll be too close for my comfort.”

“We did not go on this quest for comfort,” Thorin reminded him, somewhat dryly.

“Where there are wargs, there are orcs,” Bofur said. “And orcs love gossip more than hobbits.”

“Pardon me!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“There are unfriendly eyes all over Tharbad,” Balin said. “Before long, the band that tried to stop us at the Last Bridge will come south.”

“Let them,” was Thorin’s only response.

* * *

The company spent the next few days attempting to rid themselves of the wargs. They forded the Glanduin four times and led their ponies backward to point their tracks the wrong way, and Bombur laid his precious spices over their trail in the hopes of ruining the wargs’ noses. Fíli and Kíli took special delight in these deceptions as, they explained, they had used similar tactics to prevent Balin from hunting them down for their studies.

Meanwhile, their path became steadily steeper as they ascended into the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Here, the smooth plains of Swanfleet dipped and folded like crumpled paper, forcing the company to climb one hill only to descend it a mile later. The land was not so featureless now; enormous spurs of lichen-coated rock burst from the golden grass, and copses of aspen dotted the brooksides, their rattling leaves providing near-constant noise. Once or twice, Bilbo thought that some of the rocks had been carved, or the trees deliberately planted, but he saw no sign of habitation larger than a badger den.

Ahead, the Misty Mountains loomed over their surroundings. Their snowcapped peaks seemed to be crowned with thick clouds night and day, and Bilbo did not relish crossing them. As it was, the ponies threaded their way along thin game trails that even Kíli had trouble following. Bilbo did not think the mountain path would be any more forgiving.

The nights were silent, but worrisomely so, as they could not gauge where the wargs were. No one was sure if they had successfully lost them or if they had become stealthier. 

Finally, Thorin voiced all of their thoughts as they stopped to refill their waterskins by a brook. “We need someone to scout ahead.”

“I’ll do it!” Kíli said immediately.

“Someone who can travel at speed and remain undetected.”

Kíli jumped in front of him. “Uncle! I’ll do it!”

Thorin’s eye remained fixed on Bilbo.

Bilbo had managed a controlled glide in the Barrow Downs, but he feared anything more elaborate would end with his snout buried in the dirt and the company’s ridicule. It wasn’t worth the risk. “No. It will be very difficult, what with the … the wind shears coming off the mountains…” He gestured vaguely east, into some depressingly stagnant air.

“You need only to find the wargs,” Thorin said. “They should not be far behind.”

The company’s expectancy broke his resolve. They needed him to do this and, at the very least, he would avoid another day of marching.

“Oh, very well,” Bilbo huffed. He stood up and began to strip.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asked warily.

Bilbo shoved his waistcoat under Thorin’s nose. “This is _tailored_ , Master Dwarf. I won’t find its like again, not in this neck of the woods, so I can’t go ripping my clothes off every time I want to transform.” He folded his clothes neatly and dropped them into Thorin’s arms. “Take care they aren’t wrinkled.”

Bilbo stretched his hands and watched them melt into claws as the transformation took hold of his body. Then, he crawled onto a tall rock and leapt off, his wings pumping vigorously as he struggled to gain altitude. He had scarcely climbed two hundred yards when he felt the strain, but a gust of wind caught his wings and he remembered how to soar.

Bilbo followed the thermal in a loose loop around the company before finding another one to blow him west. He looked down for a brief second and was stricken with vertigo. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought — _a dizzy dragon!_ — and forced himself to search the ground beneath.

There was little indication that anything dwelled here, save a few deer camouflaged beneath the stubby trees. Bilbo’s stomach rumbled when he saw them, and he folded his wings into a dive. The wind roared in his ears and buffeted his body, and he closed both his eyelids and enjoyed the sensation.

His eyes snapped open, fractions of a second too late. He flared his wings, struggling to slow his descent, but he plowed feet-first into the grass, tumbling over and over until he fetched up against a pile of rocks. His wings ached and his chest felt as if Bofur had staved it in with his mattock. But the exhilaration of his flight still burned in his blood, and he was able to drag himself atop the rocks, twisting this way and that to taste the breeze. It was heavy with the taste of the deer, damp vegetation, and rocks. There was the faintest hint of something else, too — something sour and rank, as if it had emerged from underground.

A rock shifted behind him and Bilbo turned in time to see an orc rise from behind a boulder and shoot an arrow at his head, narrowly missing his crest. Bilbo clenched his legs, preparing to take flight, but an enormous warg barreled into his side, snapping at his delicate wings. Bilbo twisted so his armored side bore the brunt of the attack, and, together, they tumbled down the rocks. He managed to wrap his front claws around the warg’s body, holding it securely against his chest. He knew he ought to bite it, but the hobbitish part of him quailed at the thought. He paid for his squeamishness; the warg wrenched free and sank its teeth into the lightly armored flesh on the inside of his leg. Bilbo hissed in rage and grabbed the warg by its scruff, sharply jerking his head aside to snap its neck.

He spit out the warg’s corpse — which tasted just as awful as he had imagined — and sprinted towards open ground as he spread his wings, flapping vigorously until he attained a safe altitude, then dove again to pluck the screaming orc from the rocks and crush it in his claws.

He was too late; an Orcish horn blew from perhaps two hundred yards off and barks and other horns answered its call. From his height, Bilbo could see dozens of wargs issuing from the north towards the orc’s position.

Bilbo found the company and landed in their midst, ignoring the spooked ponies. Ori lobbed his clothes at him and Bilbo recounted his findings as he dressed.

“The wargs aren’t far behind,” he said. “Ten, maybe twelve leagues. They have orcs with them. I counted at least thirty wargs, maybe half as many orcs.”

“Thirty?” Nori demanded. “How is thirteen supposed to go against thirty?”

“With a better attitude than yours,” Glóin retorted.

“Thirty will be nothing to warriors like us,” Kíli declared, twirling his shortsword.

“We’re still five leagues from the gate, as the raven flies,” Balin said. “We’ll have to make better time if we are to beat them.”

Thorin turned to him. “Master Baggins, did anyone see you?”

“No one still alive,” Bilbo bragged, hooking his thumbs under his suspenders.

“Then it seems we have a use for you after all,” Thorin said. He must have realized how harsh that sounded, especially after the incident in the Barrowdowns, and added, “You did well. Can you keep an eye on them?”

“Not now,” Oin said. “He’s injured.”

Bilbo barely noticed his warg bite or the ache of his now-hidden wings anymore, and an hour in the sunlight would mend him entirely. Nevertheless, he wanted to milk his injuries for all they were worth. They owed it to him after he had rescued them from the wights. But then he grudgingly admitted that he had not saved their necks only to let them die now, which was exactly what would happen if he begged off.

He still resented that he felt obliged do it, though.

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo said. “It’s already stopped bleeding.”

“I should have a look at it,” Oin said.

“I’ve never had an infection,” Bilbo said, which was the truth. “You should get moving before more wargs show up.”

“He’s right,” Balin said. “We must be at Khazad-dûm’s gates by tomorrow.”

Kíli rode as close to Bilbo as the pony would come. “You’re taking me with you next time.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stay on when I dive,” Bilbo said.

“I’ll figure something out,” Kíli said. “Usually do — oh, and don’t tell Fíli. I want to be the first Dwarf to ride a dragon. And don’t tell Uncle, either. He’d try to stop me. Or Mister Dwalin. Or Balin. Actually, keep it between us.”

“I haven’t agreed to take you!”

“I know,” Kíli said. “But you might.”

Bilbo recalled his unfortunate acquaintance with the ground earlier that day and decided that an excitable Dwarf on top of everything else would be too much for the moment. But, as Kíli had said, his mind might change.

* * *

Bilbo circled the wargs for hours, watching them sniff and lope their way over the rough terrain. This time, he counted forty-three, but their coats were too similar to tell apart. Occasionally, he would fly off to locate the company, and, each time, he felt the gap between the hunters and hunted shrink.

By the time the company made camp, Bilbo was nearly falling out of the sky with exhaustion. He landed in an undignified tangle of wings and tail, changed back into a hobbit, snuggled deep into his bedroll, and fell asleep with a sleepy, “They’re four leagues behind. Expect an attack later tonight” for the company to mull over.

He woke in utter darkness. It appeared the Dwarves had made no fire, and the stars and moon were concealed behind the mountains and the dark clouds shrouding them. His stomach grumbled and Bilbo sat up, rooting through his pack for something to eat — bread and dried venison, and a few early blueberries Bilbo had found the day before.

As he ate, he was aware of Thorin’s gaze.

“I’m not what you should be watching for,” Bilbo said.

“I’m not on watch,” Thorin said.

Bilbo searched until he found Bifur and Nori, craftily concealed in two nearby trees. “From what Balin said, you have another twenty miles to travel. You should be resting.”

“I cannot sleep when there are wargs nearby, nor when we are so close to Khazad-dûm.”

“Gandalf made it sound dangerous.”

“To the unwary, as many things are,” Thorin said. “I have never had the pleasure of looking upon it myself, although I have often seen its three peaks. They stand high in the dreams of every Dwarf.”

Bilbo thought one mountain looked much the same as another, but he did not have the energy to fight a Dwarf about rocks. “Do they have names?”

“Zirakzigil the Silver, Bundushathur the Cloudy, and Barazinbar the Red — or the Cruel. The Elves have other names for them, no doubt, but since this is Dwarf land, it is proper to call them by their Khuzdûl names.”

“I didn’t see any Dwarves when I was flying,” Bilbo said.

Thorin did not answer, but began to pick at the bark on his wood shield. After a long pause, he asked, “Did you see a white warg?”

“No,” Bilbo said, furrowing his brow as he thought. “No, don’t think so. It would have stood out.”

“It is imperative that you tell me if you do,” Thorin said. “Please.”

That decided it for Bilbo. Politeness always impressed him. “Of course.”

“Thank…” Thorin trailed off, then sprang to his feet, Orcrist drawn.

“ _Rukhskanâd_!” shouted Bifur, leaping from cover. “ _Rukhskanâd_!”

The whole company was awake by the time the wargs charged into the midst of their camp. Bifur impaled one on his spear when it charged him, but another bowled him over and Bofur dislodged it with a well-placed strike of his mattock.

Bilbo ducked out of the confusing press of bodies and hair and weapons, carefully took off his clothes, and then leapt over a rock with an angry hiss, his wings unfurled to make him appear that much larger. The wargs hesitated for a split second, and it was all the time Kíli needed to shoot the largest one in the eye.

Chaos erupted anew, and now Bilbo was in the thick of it. He stomped and slashed, snapping their necks with one shake of his head and breaking their legs with powerful swipes of his tail. He counted on the company to move before he injured them, too, and they were more than up to the task. More than once, he felt a Dwarf passing under his belly and Kíli clambered onto his back, firing arrows with deadly precision.

When all was quiet again, ten dead wargs lay in the midst of their camp and the company had assorted cuts and scrapes to show for it.

“Did any of them escape?” Dwalin asked.

“No,” Kíli said as he pulled an arrow from a dead warg’s neck. “Would’ve seen it.”

“The orcs will notice the wargs are gone by sunrise, if not sooner,” Balin said. “We should march through the night. Where are the ponies?”

“Bolted,” Ori said glumly.

“We don’t have time to look for them,” Thorin said. “Take what you can carry and give the rest to the dragon. Everyone must pull their weight.”

Bilbo took the hint and consented to being laden with their baggage. The Dwarves buried or burned their surplus supplies — including, to Bilbo’s alarm, some food — and, ultimately, Bilbo carried only half again as much as he usually would.

Balin led them out of the rough country and onto an ancient road. The paving stones — where they had not vanished entirely — were cracked and covered in moss, but the uniform surface allowed them to cover ground swiftly. They were no longer meandering up the mountain’s foothills: this road was set on a steep incline and often dog-legged up nearly vertical slopes. Bilbo flew over the worst of these obstacles, tail switching impatiently as he waited for the Dwarves to ascend. The valley rang with howls and Bilbo could _feel_ the wargs catching up to them.

Hours of strenuous marching brought them to the crest of the final hill. Here, the path terminated into the waters of a small lake, its dark waters barely stirring in the breeze coming off the mountain. Behind the lake was a sheer cliff, and the two were separated by a pebbly beach dotted with holly trees.

“It’s a dead end,” Bilbo whispered.

“No it’s not,” Bofur said, clapping him on the back. “That’s the gate.”

Bilbo jabbed a finger at the rock. “ _Into_ the mountain?”

“Well, of course,” Bofur said, sounding confused. “You’ve never heard of Khazad-dûm? Or Moria?”

“Mor-Moria?” Bilbo spluttered, backpedaling on instinct — right into Nori. “We’re going into _Moria?_ ”

“Don’t be so nervous,” Nori said, shoving Bilbo forward. “There’s nothing in there anymore. Hasn’t been since the war.”

“It’s perfectly safe, as long as you know where you’re going,” Kíli added.

“And all of us do,” Oin said, tapping his skull.

Bilbo fervently tried to expel the memory of Oin being convinced he had lost his stitching kit when it had been in his hand the whole time.

“What’s the holdup?” Dwalin asked.

“ _Targhu jalatatani,_ ” Bifur said.

“We don’t have time for that,” Dwalin said. “Where’s the path? I don’t like the look of this water.”

Dori found a narrow ledge edging the circumference of the dark pond. They walked single-file, pressed against the cliff face, until they reached a gravelly beach barely big enough for all of them. The wall rose before them, as high as Bilbo could see.

“I can’t carry us over this,” Bilbo said, leaning back to take a full accounting of it.

“Have faith, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. “You stand at the gate of the greatest Dwarf kingdom of Middle Earth.” He caressed the rock lovingly, before rapping it with his knuckles. “If we can find it.”

“Brilliant!” Bilbo snapped, unable to contain his fear and exasperation any longer. “Out of the frying pan and into the frying pan, I’d say! Escaping the wargs just to be butchered by—”

“Look!” Ori exclaimed, pointing to the cliff. The faint silver outline of a door hovered before them, about twenty feet high and ten feet across. Its sides were bracketed by two trees wrapped around pillars, over which arced two lines of Fëanorian characters. Below the words were seven stars over a helm, and a hammer and anvil. It was, Bilbo had to admit, beautiful.

“True Dwarf doors only open when you speak the password,” Balin said, setting his hands on his hips. “We need only guess the password before the wargs arrive.”

“What does it say?” Ori asked.

“I … I don’t know,” Thorin said.

The company shuffled their feet awkwardly for a moment and Bilbo realized they couldn’t read the Elvish writing either.

_Out of the frying pan and into an extra greasy frying pan already on fire!_

“How many Dwarves can guess the password at once?” Nori asked warily.

“You’d best start,” Balin said, and shouted, “ _Ijnidî! Abâd! M’imnu Durin! Khatdel!_ ”

The other Dwarves started hollering incoherently in Khuzdûl.

“Quiet!” Bilbo snapped, rubbing his temples.

“And I suppose a dragon has a better idea of how to get into a Dwarf kingdom,” Glóin said sarcastically.

“I know the characters, and if you would just give me a moment, I’ll remember how to read them,” Bilbo retorted, and the company fell silent.

“How came you to know Elvish characters?” Glóin asked.

“By watching over Fëanor’s shoulder as he devised them,” Bilbo retorted.

“Is he serious?” Kíli whispered to Fíli.

“I think so,” Fíli whispered back.

“ _The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria_ ,” Bilbo translated. “ _Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs._ ”

“That was useless,” Oin said. “We are friends and we _have_ spoken.”

“I’m not going to sit around while the wargs tear us to shreds,” Dwalin said, setting his ax against the rock. Dori, Ori, Glóin, and Kíli sprang to his aid, while Nori felt along the rock for the jamb.

“The answer is probably a simple one, knowing Elves,” Bilbo said to himself.

“Hardly,” Thorin scoffed. “They would never make simple what they could make hard, and they delight in …” The shadow seemed to lift from his face “…in riddles.”

“What is it, uncle?” Fíli asked.

“It’s a _riddle,_ ” Thorin whispered. “Is it in the makers’ names? The name of Durin? Master Baggins, is there anything amiss with the wording?”

“No,” Bilbo said slowly, reading through it again, “and I know Sindarin as well as Westron.”

A howl rose from the other side of the lake and in the dying light, the company could see the wargs swarming around the edge of the pool, sniffing about for the path to the gate. Dwalin and the others took their attention from the gate and ran to the edge of the path, their weapons ready.

“You’d best be getting that door open!” Glóin shouted. “There are too many of them!”

“Think harder, Master Baggins,” Thorin said.

“Is there a letter missing?” Fíli guessed.

Bilbo growled in frustration, his fingers twisted in his hair. He read the lines again, and then again.

“Dragon!” Thorin barked.

“Friends,” Bilbo blurted, his hands falling weightlessly from his head. “What’s the Khuzdûl word for _friend_?”

“ _Bahâ!_ ” shouted the entire company.

The doors did not open. Meanwhile, the wargs had found the path. Their sharp teeth gleamed in the moonlight and their snarls echoed menacingly off the water.

“What now?” cried Dori.

“The door’s in Sindarin!” Kíli yelled. “What’s Sindarin for _friend_?”

“ _Mellon!_ ” Bilbo shouted, and after the most agonizing four seconds of his life, he heard a subterranean rumble and the doors began to pivot open with ponderous grace.

“Inside!” Thorin bellowed, standing to one side as the company sprinted past. He met Bilbo’s eye and made a sharp nod of approval.

The wargs howled at the sight of their escaping prey and forsook the path to cut across the water. Bilbo felt something ripple below the surface seconds before a tentacle shot out of the still pool, wrapping itself around the nearest warg and dragging it into the depths.

Dwalin had enough time to say, “What by Durin’s shortest groin hairs?” before the water boiled with activity. Tentacles shot every which way, without any regard if it was towards orcs or Dwarves. Thorin hewed many with Orcrist, and Bilbo even stabbed one with Nagtelch before the company rallied to their defense.

“To the city!” Balin shouted as he cut a tentacle from Dori’s ankle. “We’ll shut the gates on them!”

The company turned to run when Ori screamed, scrabbling for purchase amidst the gravel as he was dragged towards the pool.

Bilbo shed his hobbit form and took flight, just as a hideous shape reared out of the depths: that of a monstrous face framed by dozens of writhing grey tentacles — one of which suspended Ori high above the creature’s gaping mouth.

Bilbo swooped down, extending his claws to grab Ori, but the creature jerked him out of Bilbo’s reach and he had to dive to evade a grasping tentacle. On his second pass, he snagged Ori’s tunic, tearing him free. They barreled through the Gates of Durin and Bilbo dropped Ori, nudging him further inside so the others could close the gates. Then Ori shouted a warning, pointing over Bilbo’s wings. Five thick tentacles were creeping over the threshold, groping blindly for Bilbo legs.

He turned around, pushed the company behind him with his wings, and unleashed a scorching blast that incinerated the tentacles on contact. From the pool, the creature moaned in pain, curling its tentacles in on itself as it retreated to the depths.

The last thing Bilbo saw before the gates closed was an enormous white Orc astride a white warg studying him coldly from across the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  _Abâd_ — I am here  
>  _Bahâ_ — friend  
>  _Ijnidî_ — open  
>  _Khatdel_ — carrot of all carrots  
>  _M’imnu Durin_ — By Durin’s name  
>  _Rukhskanâd_ — wargs  
>  _Targhu jalatatani_ — he is afraid; literally, _his beard withered_


	6. The Empty Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company passes through Khazad-dûm and attempt to evade the perils lying in wait.

Bilbo woke up under a gargantuan pile of blankets, coats, cloaks, backpacks, and socks, with Bofur’s hat fitted snugly around his temples. The company was clustered around him and, the moment he opened his eyes, they set up a great cheer that rang off the distant ceiling. It was meant to be a joyous sound, but their surroundings distorted it into something empty and pathetic.

Bilbo sat up, gathering everything about him like a cocoon. “Where’s Ori?”

“Over here, Master Baggins,” the young scribe said, raising a gloved hand. “Still have all my important parts attached.”

Before Bilbo had the chance to respond, he was seized from behind and crushed in a powerful embrace.

“Thank you,” Dori sobbed into his ear. “I take back anything I said about your kind, even if you are slimy layabouts.”

“Th-thanks,” Bilbo said. It was nice to be vindicated.

“Can you walk?” Thorin asked when Dori had released Bilbo.

“In a moment. Where’s my pack?”

Kíli tossed over the pack — and Nagtelch, to Bilbo’s relief — and Bilbo dressed in his third-best set of clothing. He mourned the loss of his plum waistcoat, torn to shreds when he rescued Ori, and wondered what had possessed him to prioritize the company’s lives over his wardrobe. He must have been going soft in his dotage.

The company stepped back, allowing Bilbo to see his surroundings. He sat on an enormous threshold, with the gate on one side and crumbling stone steps ascending into the blackness on the other. Beautifully carved pillars reached towards a ceiling so high up that Bilbo would have felt comfortable flying.

“Welcome to Khazad-dûm, greatest of the Dwarf Kingdoms in Middle Earth,” Thorin said, his voice echoing eerily. Bilbo wished he would never speak again; there was something about Moria that set his teeth on edge and he did not want to attract its attention.

“You mean Moria,” Bilbo muttered. He was still sour at being deceived, and frightened now that he was within. He had heard nothing pleasant about this particular pit; he had not even known it was a Dwarvish settlement. He had been under the illusion that goblins had carved it out.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Bofur said. “There aren’t many goblins left in the Misty Mountains.”

“Are you going to g-guarantee that?” Bilbo retorted.

“I will,” Thorin said, and there was an unspoken bitterness in his voice.

Now Bilbo could hear faint crashes and yelps coming from the other side of the door. “The w-wargs are still out th-there?”

“Aye and unless they guess the password, that’s where they’ll stay,” Dwalin said. “Dwarf doors can’t be breached.”

“Smaug did a f-fair job on y-yours.”

“Erebor’s gates were not made in the manner of Khazad-dûm’s,” Balin said.

“Don’t worry, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. “The only other way into Khazad-dûm is the Eastern Gate. They will have a hard ride over Barazinbar’s shoulder before they reach it.”

“It will take them five days at the earliest,” Balin clarified. “That is how long we have to reach the Gate.”

“If no one’s been here in a thousand years, how does anyone know the way?” Bilbo asked.

Oin looked at him as if he was crazy. “All Dwarves know Khazad-dûm.”

“If we get lost, we can always follow the trail of corpses leading out,” Bofur said cheerfully, tapping a pillar with his finger.

Bilbo swallowed. “Corpses?”

“Few of Khazad-dûm’s last inhabitants escaped alive.”

_Brilliant._

“That’s what you’re here for, Master Baggins,” Ori piped up.

 

Thorin ascended the short staircase and looked down on them. “Listen, all of you.” When he determined that the company was paying sufficient attention, he continued. “Speak no more than necessary and muffle your weapons. We will not make any fire. There are worse than goblins in these halls.”

“I estimate it at four days’ walk to the Eastern Gate,” Balin added. “If we hurry, we might cut it to three.”

“Oin, keep the time,” Thorin ordered, and turned into the halls.

Oin pulled a tiny hourglass from his pocket and turned it over. Sand slowly began to trickle into the bottom half.

“We have ten turns to get out,” Balin explained to Bilbo. “Or else we’ll wish that the watcher had eaten us instead.”

* * *

Time passed strangely in the twilit halls of Moria. The sand in Oin’s hourglass only told them how long they had been in the mines, not if it was night or day, so they walked until they were tired, ate when they were hungry, and rested fitfully until they could go on.

Despite Thorin’s warning, they came across nothing, living or dead. Bilbo still could not rid himself of the feeling of being watched, and, even worse, he could find nothing to reassure himself that this was not the case. Moria was massive, and there were many places for foul creatures to hide. For every junction they took, four or five others spiraled into the darkness. Sometimes, they passed through enormous halls that would rival those of the Valar in their size and splendor, with an unknown number of points of egress hidden on the fringes of the endless marching columns. At others, they skirted the edges of gaping pits whose dimensions stretched into unguessable depths.

The Dwarves kept a steady pace, but paused here and there and stared up in awe, or laid a respectful hand upon the wall, until they were in danger of being left behind. Fíli, Kíli, and Ori in particular walked about with their mouths constantly agape.

“They have never strayed far from Ered Luin,” Thorin explained to Bilbo. “Our dwellings there are modest compared to Erebor, let alone Khazad-dûm.”

“Is its name Khazad-dûm or Moria?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin scowled. “ _Moria_ means _black pit_. It is nothing more than Elvish slander.”

Bilbo looked around the room in which they rested with exaggerated care. He could see the vestiges of its beauty in the weathered frieze wrapping around the walls, the white plinth rising elegantly from the center of the floor, and the sturdy pillars that protected it. The room must have been accounted as a broom closet by Dwarvish standards, but Bilbo would have found it cozy had it not fallen into disrepair. Half the pillars had collapsed and the plinth had been defaced with phrases so awful in quality and content that Bilbo wished he could not understand the Black Speech. The faint stench of goblin hung over everything, as did — oddly — that of brimstone.

“This rock has not known the laughter of its people for a thousand years,” Thorin whispered. “The same fate must never befall Erebor.”

He spoke with such fervor that Bilbo expected someone to wake. But the company slumbered peacefully on, confident that the watch would rouse them should something happen.

“There’s only a dragon sleeping in there,” Bilbo reassured him, “not a pack of orcs running around and scrawling what they’d like to stick up Durin’s arse on your walls, among other things. We dragons are very low-impact nesters. Smaug might even love Erebor, in his own way.”

“It is not him to love, only possess and covet,” Thorin spat. “You said so yourself.”

“Our desire to protect our hoard is something _like_ love,” said Bilbo. “Love itself is not beyond us. I love the Shire. I love hobbits. I love my home under Bag End. I do not covet them.” He glared at Thorin until the Dwarf looked away. “Perhaps Smaug does not know the difference. We are not the same kind of dragon, after all.”

“And for that, I am grateful,” Thorin said. “Thirteen is an unlucky number to our people and I would hate to add to our misfortune by ridding myself of you.”

Bilbo, who was accustomed to hobbit wordplay, still could not tell if Thorin had complimented or insulted him — or both. “If I had more energy, my pride would compel me to challenge you to a duel.” He yawned. “You’re lucky I’m such a merciful wyrm.”

“That we are,” Thorin said. “I can take this watch on my own. You should sleep, Master Baggins. You’ll need it.”

* * *

“The sun,” Bilbo whispered through chapped lips. “The sun … we found the sun.”

He was half-convinced the golden shaft of light was an mirage, a cruel trick played on him by the foul subterranean realm. He had not seen anything of the sky for four turns of the hourglass — days, although he did not know how many — and, like the shadows that he had thought were stalking them, this, too, had to be an illusion.

He tugged on weakly at Bofur’s shoulder. “Is that the sun?”

“So it is.” Bofur stopped and cocked his head. “What is that doing down here?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Bilbo said, already stumbling towards the light’s terminus. It would only take a few moments to confirm, and surely the company could begrudge him that much…

“Where are you going?” Balin asked when Bilbo had strayed too far.

Bilbo waved vaguely behind him. “The sun.” He didn’t know how to express his deep desire to soak up its warmth after spending so long in the cold subterranean realm. “I need … I need to see it.”

“We must press on,” Dwalin said. “We only have two days left.”

“Is it a … draconic need?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo frowned, then nodded.

“If I am not mistaken, this is the Chamber of Mazarbul,” Thorin said. “A hard day’s trek will bring us to the Dimrill Dale. We can rest here until Master Baggins feels well enough to continue.”

Relief blossomed in Bilbo’s chest. He sprinted into the Chamber of Marzipan and threw himself into the rectangle of light at its center. Laying on the warm stone felt like sliding into a bath after a hard day’s work. 

“What is this place?” he heard Fíli ask as the company entered.

“The chamber of records,” Balin said heavily. “Once a place of great light and learning.”

“We should search it,” Kíli said. “Maybe something is written here about Erebor or ways to enter it, since we couldn’t go to Rivendell.”

“Erebor was a mining colony when Khazad-dûm fell,” Glóin said. “There’s nothing to find, even if we did have the time to look.”

“It was a good idea,” Bofur said to the crestfallen young Dwarf.

They passed around what food they had — just cram, as usual — and sat around the sunlit square, speaking with more levity than they had in days. As much as the Dwarves blustered about thriving in darkness, Bilbo knew they were glad to see it, too.

“How did the light get down here?” Fíli asked, shielding his eyes as he looked up.

“Mirrors,” Óin said. “Erebor used to have their like.”

While most of the Dwarves were loosely clustered around the sunlight, Bifur sat on their fringes, hunched over and wringing his hands. It seemed like a nervous gesture and Bilbo wondered why he had never seen him do that.

_The wood,_ he suddenly remembered. Bifur had almost always been carving something. He must have finished his squirrel after they had entered Moria.

Bilbo walked over to the Dwarf and Bifur rushed to his feet, grabbing his spear and pointing it at Bilbo.

“No, wait!” he said, holding out his hands. “Wait!” From his pocket, he drew out a strange piece of wood that he had picked up at Bombadil’s house. Bilbo had intended it as a keepsake, to remind himself that the strange days in the Man’s hut had actually happened. But Bifur needed it more. “For you.”

Bifur regarded him suspiciously.

“I found it at Bombadil’s,” Bilbo said, proffering it again. He had no idea if Bifur could understand him, but he could see the branch if nothing else. “I don’t know how well it’ll carve but it’s better than nothing, right? Here, I’m giving it to you.”

The Dwarf cocked his head, then slammed the butt of his spear into the ground and made a few sharp, violent-looking gestures. “ _Akminruki astû._ ”

“ _Akminruki astû_ ,” Bilbo repeated, unsure of what else to say.

Bifur shook his head and pointed to him. “ _Y’amul._ ”

“Does that mean _you’re welcome_?”

Bifur nodded.

“ _Y’amul,_ ,” Bilbo said. Bifur offered a small smile in return and immediately began turning the wood over in his hands.

“There are some who might object to an outsider learning Khuzdûl,” Glóin observed.

“None here, I assume,” Thorin said. His voice carried a warning undertone.

“None at all,” he said casually.

The tension of the last few weeks bled out of Bilbo’s shoulders. Perhaps sticking with this ragtag group of stunted halfwits hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

“Even if you are a strange little dragon-hobbit,” Bofur said. “A dragobbit.”

Fíli shook his head. “Dragit.”

“Hobbon,” Kíli said.

Dori suggested, “Hob-drag-it.” 

“Pain in the ass,” Dwalin muttered. 

“Drobbit!” Ori shouted from across the room.

There was a loud _clang_ from behind them and everyone turned to see the source. Oin was backing away from a helmet he had evidently dropped, axe drawn.

“What’s wrong with it?” Oin demanded, pointing to the helmet.

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” Glóin snapped. “Why did you drop it?”

“Ori said to drop it!”

“I said _drobbit_ , like _dragon-hobbit_!” Ori said.

“Well it isn’t _my_ fault I’m deaf!”

Balin frantically waved them into silence. For a long moment, they froze, ears straining to hear anything beyond the Chamber of Mazarbul.

Then Bilbo heard it. It started as a low rumble, so deep that Bilbo he felt it through his feet long before it built to its terrifying crescendo. Something out in the darkness had heard them.

“ _Abzâg Durinul,_ ” Bifur whimpered. It was the first time Bilbo had ever seen him afraid.

Kíli strode forth. “We’ll make a stand.” He held his sword aloft. “ _Du bekâr!_ ”

“Don’t be a fool,” Thorin said, pushing Kíli’s arm down. “Durin IV will be the last of our line to die here. We make for the gates.”

Up and down stairs and halls they ran, pursued by the creature’s primeval bays. They sprinted over the spindly Bridge of Khazad-dûm and Bilbo sensed they were near the surface, as it was considerably warmer here than it had been in the Chamber.

Suddenly, a gout of flame shot from the upper level on the opposite side of the bridge.

“What is that?” Bilbo said.

“Durin’s Bane,” Oin whispered. “May Durin save us all.”

“Keep running!” Dwalin barked. “The Eastern Gate can’t be far.”

The company scrambled up the stairs, Dwalin all but hauling Ori by the scruff of his neck when he fell behind. A scant hundred feet below, an enormous figure wreathed in flame stepped onto the bridge. In one hand it held a fiery scourge, and in the other a molten sword. It looked up at them and Bilbo was nearly flattened by the heat of its malevolence.

“A _balrog_?” Bilbo squeaked, head spinning. “We woke a _balrog?_ ”

Two enormous wings sprouted from its back and it launched itself into the air, landing in front of the company with stone-shattering impact. The temperature forced Bilbo back down the stairs, but the Dwarves seemed unaffected.

“Fight me, you twisted creature of Morgoth!” Ori yelled as Dori pulled him back.

The balrog roared a blistering column of heat in reply and began to advance on the company.

Thorin broke from the group, sprinting for the balrog’s flank. It turned to keep him in sight, readying its whip.

“I am Thorin Oakenshield!” he shouted, holding Orcrist at the ready. “Son of Thráin, Heir of Durin!”

“Thorin, no!” Dwalin said.

“Get them to Kheled-zâram,” Thorin ordered. “I’ll join you there. Fíli, Kíli — follow Balin.”

The Dwarves lingered for a long moment before reluctantly retreating as the balrog stalked towards Thorin. Thorin had always stood tall in Bilbo’s mind, but as the balrog loomed over him, he appeared pathetic and helpless, a tiny figure against a literal force of nature.

“He won’t make it,” Bilbo muttered, throwing his pack into Bofur’s arms. “Don’t wait for me.”

Bilbo assumed his dragon form mid-stride, shivering gratefully as hard scales closed over his vulnerable neck and back. He took flight, circling the chamber to assess the situation.

Thorin was evading the balrog’s whip handily, but it was slowly backing him into a corner. If the whip didn’t kill him, the heat radiating from the fire elemental’s body would.

Bilbo dove at the balrog, swooping just low enough to irritate it, and it cracked its whip threateningly as Bilbo approached again. Thorin darted forth and stabbed the balrog’s foot, throwing himself prone as the whip passed over his head. Bilbo released a gout of his hottest breath upon the balrog. The flames on its back flared brighter for a moment, but otherwise had no effect.

The cold crept into his wings and he had to pass lower than he would have wanted in order to capitalize on its searing aura. A tongue of flame curled around one of his back legs and, with a vicious yank, the balrog pulled him from the air, slamming him onto the scorched flagstones.

Bilbo scrabbled at the soot-stained stones as the balrog reeled him in, its malicious scowl like a rent in its misshapen features.

Thorin reared up behind the creature and thrust Orcrist all the way into its twisted body. The balrog shrieked in pain, its wings shooting out to throw Thorin against the far wall, where he did not stir.

Panicked, Bilbo snapped the whip with one swift bite and rushed to Thorin’s side. The balrog blocked his path and, from its bare hand, created a sword of orange flame. Undaunted, Bilbo feinted left and darted right, sweeping the balrog’s legs out from under it with his tail. The balrog fell with an enormous crash that rattled the dust from the ceiling. Bilbo tried, once more, to reach Thorin, but this time the balrog grabbed his foot in a crushing grip.

Bilbo writhed like an earthworm, desperately trying to twist himself from its grip. It held him one-handed as it pulled Orcrist from its back. It tossed the sword towards Thorin; while cherry red, it seemed fine, although Bilbo could not say he would meet the same fate.

It was then that Bilbo realized just how close they were to the lip of the chasm. He wriggled towards the edge, forcing the balrog to step forward to readjust its grip. Finally, he surged forward and sank his claws into the balrog’s fiery hide, pumping his wings furiously as he pushed the creature towards the abyss. The balrog fell with a bark of surprise, and its grip on Bilbo’s leg loosened enough for him to pry himself free. Not pausing to see what the balrog had done, Bilbo grabbed Orcrist in one paw and clumsily slung Thorin over his back, in front of his wings. Thorin climbed into a better position, his legs now painfully gripping Bilbo’s shoulders. Bilbo took it as a positive sign.

“We must collapse the hall behind us,” Thorin said wearily. “It cannot escape into the wider world.”

Bilbo saw no means of stopping the balrog here, so he took off, flying in the only direction he could fathom: away from that creature. But Thorin was no featherweight, and Bilbo soon began to tire. Meanwhile, the balrog’s ominous glow only grew, throwing their shadows far ahead.

Suddenly, a tiny sliver of sunlight appeared in the distance and Bilbo gathered his flagging strength to make one final push.

“Wait!” Thorin said. “Melt through that pillar. It will bring down the whole roof.”

Bilbo circled the enormous hall once more. All the other columns had fallen, but this one alone — reinforced by the orcs’ crude metals, it seemed — had stood the test of time. Bilbo had neither the time nor the strength to ram it; he scorched it until runnels of melted stone ran down its base and the pillar began to sway.

Behind them, the balrog screeched in dismay and Bilbo felt each of its thunderous footfalls as it sprinted towards them, but he was already gone, slipping through the Eastern Gate with Thorin as the great Dwarf city crumbled behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the War of Dwarves and Orcs (the conclusion of which was Azanulbizar), the Misty Mountains were all but cleared of Orcs, since the Dwarves had massacred the shit out of them in a series of enormous underground battles. It'll be another forty years before the Orcs have sufficient numbers to threaten travelers again, so the balrog can live in relative peace - meddlesome dragons aside.
> 
> ....And I think we'll call that battle a draw.
> 
> **Translations**  
>  _Abzâg Durinul_ — Durin’s Bane  
>  _Akminruki astû_ — Thank you  
>  _Y’amul_ — You’re welcome


	7. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company regains their strength on the edge of Kheled-zâram.

The moment he felt the sun’s light pass over his body, Bilbo tilted his wings upward, catching a gust off the mountain’s face to soar above the Eastern Gate’s threshold. The balrog’s heat had temporarily staved off the chill, but Bilbo knew he had only minutes before the cold crippled him.

So great was his worry that he almost forgot about Thorin until he dove earthbound again and felt the Dwarf’s arms constrict around his throat.

Thorin needn’t have worried. Bilbo maintained a level glide down the mountain as he searched for the company. After a moment, he spotted them under the trees, half-invisible in the underbrush. Bilbo landed at the forest’s edge, barely breaking his stride as he sprinted after them.

The company kept west until the trees opened up to a small lake, adorned with a single stone pillar at one end. The impending sunset lent everything in an orange glow, but not the water. It was as black as night, but its darkness came from something more profound than mere murkiness.

“Where do we go from here?” Nori asked, half to himself.

Thorin used Orcrist to sketch three peaks in the dirt, then drew a thin line to represent the water running between them. He pointed to the start of the river on his map. “We are here, at the source of Kibil-nâla, a tributary of the Anduin.” He drew hash marks over the area to the right of Anduin, then a small triangle to the top right of that. “This is Erebor. We will pass under Mirkwood’s southern borders and then again up its eastern side.”

“With a host of wargs chasing us?” Dori asked. “That’s suicide!”

“Why not go north?” Kíli asked. “That’s where Erebor is.”

“We can’t outrun the orcs on open ground,” Dwalin added. “The lead we have won’t last more than a week.”

“That is why we are going south,” Thorin said. “The Field of Celebrant belongs to Rohan. We can buy mounts and food there.”

“And they guard the Anduin at all of the crossings,” Fíli said. “They will not let orcs cross their borders uncontested.”

Balin frowned. “Should we really trust the Rohirrim to guard our backs?”

“No,” said Thorin, “but we can trust them to slow the orcs.”

Balin rose to his feet. “We must keep moving. The Rohirrim are not as far north as they used to be and it might be a fortnight before we stumble onto one of their towns.”

Bilbo raised a tentative hand. “Excuse me, but where is Rohan, exactly?”

Fíli paused just before he swept Thorin’s map from the dirt. He pointed to the area south of the Silverlode. “Over here.”

“Isn’t that Calenardhon?”

“What’s that?”

“Nevermind,” Bilbo muttered sourly. Not for the first time, he lamented the years lost in the Shire. He would not have lived elsewhere for all the world, but he should have listened harder for news from beyond its borders.

“We can afford a few hours’ rest,” Thorin said. Bilbo felt an immense swell of gratitude for the Dwarf. “We’ll get little of it in the coming days.”

The company fanned out along the lake’s rocky shore, trying to find the most comfortable position amongst the enormous boulders. Bilbo noticed that no one approached the inky water; if they wished to refill their skins, they took it from a spring issuing forth from a cleft a few yards uphill.

The flight from Moria had kept the cold at bay, but now, at last, it began to soak through his clothes. He flopped onto a dark rock, dressed, wrapped his cloak around him, and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing headache bubbling up behind his left eye.

Then Oin found him.

“Up you get, Master Baggins,” Oin said, handing over Bilbo’s pack. “There’s no way you escaped a balrog of Morgoth with nothing to show for it.”

Bilbo shrugged, his clothing dragging viciously over the scorched skin beneath. He felt like a chicken left on the coals, but it would heal soon — especially since he was sitting in the sun — and he could tolerate the pain in the meantime. “I’m fine.”

Oin’s hand shot out, grabbing Bilbo’s arm and holding it in a firm grip. The old Dwarf pored over the cracked skin with an expert eye. “You have a fine crop of burns, Master Hobbit. We might need to carry you.”

“Certainly not! And I doubt you could, even if you wanted to.”

“We must move quickly.”

“And I will,” he said, taking a step forward. The blistered soles of his feet lit up with pain, but he managed to hide it under a pained smile.

“I’m not leaving until we get your arm tended to, at least.”

Bilbo took the out he was given and sat patiently as Oin dabbed a nasty-smelling ointment on the worst of his burns.

“You make a better patient than any Dwarf,” Oin said. “I have to sit on Nori.”

“I’ve resigned myself to my fate,” Bilbo said dryly.

“Smart of you.”

Bilbo lowered his voice. “Is Thorin alright?”

Oin moved his ear trumpet closer to Bilbo’s mouth. “Eh?”

Bilbo did not wish half the company to know he cared about Thorin’s wellbeing, so he said, “I said, _Why is everyone so quiet?_ ”

“Ah.” Oin tied off the bandage before saying, “This is the Vale of Kibil-nâla — the Dimrill Dale, to Men, and Nanduhirion, to Elves. But to us it is Azanulbizar and we remembered it as fondly as Hollin, until we fought a great battle here, many years ago.” He sighed heavily. “I cannot describe the carnage. Thousands of rotting corpses filled the valley from end to end: mostly Orcs, but too many Dwarves to count. It was here that we lost four of royal blood: my uncle, Fundin, and Thorin’s younger brother, Frerin; and also our crown prince, Thráin, and our king, Thrór. It is not a battle any Dwarf would sing of, except in mourning.”

Bilbo felt a pang of empathy for the Dwarves. The Hobbits’ mortality had been a nasty surprise to him and it seemed he could scarcely make friends before they succumbed to their mortality. Their deaths had profoundly affected him, even though he had known they wouldn’t die for ten years or more. But to lose all of one’s family in one day … Bilbo could not imagine.

“That’s horrible,” he managed.

“It was Thorin who turned the tide in our favor,” Oin said. “He stood against Azog, the Pale Orc, who had murdered his grandfather and brother before his eyes. His shield was lost, so he took a fallen oak branch from the ground to defend himself. Then he cut that monster’s arm off and the Orcs fell into a rout. Too late, too late…”

“Not the same branch he carries around?” Bilbo asked.

“Indeed. I think he likes the reminder.”

It seemed morbid to Bilbo, but he could not judge; he had kept the sword that had slain his brother for thousands of years. But he could only repeat, “How horrible.” 

Oin nodded absently, his eyes distant. “Aye. It was.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Is that what the pillar near the lake is for? As a memorial?”

“Of a different kind, aye.”

Bilbo decided to let the Dwarves keep their secrets. After all, even after their trials, he would not tell them the Baggins’ roast duck recipe.

“You know, I usually save the worst patients for last,” Oin said in a much more cheerful tone. Bilbo was glad to hear it.

“Am I the last?”

“Kíli.” His name was spoken like a curse. “He twisted his ankle on the way out. I should look at it — if I can find the weasel.”

“He’s up in the trees about twelve yards that way,” Bilbo said, pointing behind them.

“The magic of dragons must be mighty indeed,” Oin said, slowly getting to his feet. “You don’t know where my hearing went, do you?”

Bilbo smiled. “No, sorry.”

As Oin left, Bilbo put his knowledge down to intuition — Kíli often took to the trees, the taller the better, when he was on lookout — but there was another explanation that he was loath to consider.

He was surprised when Glóin sat beside him. Of all the Dwarves in the company, he had shown Bilbo the greatest animosity, and for a moment Bilbo thought someone else had forced him to do it. But there was little reluctance in his expression as he pulled a locket from inside his coat.

“Have I told you about my family?” Glóin asked.

“No, I don’t believe you have.” In truth, Bilbo often forgot the Dwarves must have relations outside the company. They rarely spoke of them, at least to him. It was strange to a dragon that had spent the last few thousand years with hobbits who couldn’t pass teatime without discussing relations down to their aunt’s third cousin’s grandfather.

Glóin opened the locket to reveal sketches of two Dwarves who looked remarkably similar, although Bilbo suspected the older one was female and the younger one her child.

“That’s my wife, Sólrun,” Glóin said, pointing to the left picture. “Ah, Durin smiled on me the day that she agreed to marry me. There was more than one Dwarf green about the gills at our wedding, and Óin was one of them — ha! And this is my son, Gimli, my _zantbarakâl_. He’s not much more than sixty and already a better axe-wielder than half of Ered Luin. Thorin wouldn’t let him come because he was too young, but I caught him following us after we set out.” Glóin smiled fondly at the locket. “He has a few decades until he can have adventures of his own, although he’s managed to give his mother and me quite a run around the mountains…”

Bilbo was quite accustomed to the topic of families and knew exactly when to nod or make approving noises. Glóin rambled long into the afternoon, and it was not until darkness had fallen that Bofur rescued him.

“Need to find something to season our dinner,” Bofur said, clapping Bilbo on the back. “You know your plants. You can probably find something, or at least quicker than we could.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said. He took his leave of Glóin and headed into the woods with Bofur.

“You’re a true part of the company now,” Bofur said. “Everyone’s been cornered by him at some point. To have him tell it, his wife is the most beautiful Dwarf in all of Arda — which she is — and his son is the greatest axe-wielder since Dwalin — which he is.”

“Then he has much to be proud of,” Bilbo said. “I found it touching.”

“Then, from now on, it’ll be your job to keep him occupied,” Bofur said. “And if Bombur ever wants to talk about his children, you’d best listen.”

“Do many of you have children?”

“Bombur and Glóin, and I think Nori has a few,” Bofur said. “Dwarves aren’t like hobbits. I suspect most of us will die as alone as we were born.”

Bilbo winced.

“It’s not awful if it’s what you want,” Bofur pointed out. “Anyway, we’d best be getting back to camp.” He rubbed his forehead, just beneath his hat. “My headache is killing me.”

As Bofur departed, Bilbo touched his brow, where a headache of his own was brewing. Perhaps it was sympathetic pain.

Bilbo walked along the edge of the forest, stepping gingerly on his burned feet. From here, he could not hear the company, nor could he see them owing to a bend in the lakeshore. He expected that this respite would be welcome. Instead, he felt as though he had left the kettle on. He knew that the Dwarves were safe, but at the same time, knew they wouldn’t be for long.

He had resolved to turn back when he realized that he was near the pillar he had seen earlier. Curious, he crept forward to investigate. It was about twenty feet high and completely unadorned. If it had not been made of razor-edged obsidian, he would have assumed it had been a natural feature.

He was not alone; also Thorin stood beside the rock. He had cast off his coat — it had probably been too damaged to save — and the stark white bandages around his hands attested the fact that, despite Bilbo’s efforts, he had not escaped unscathed.

“So …” Bilbo said. “Are we leaving soon?”

“Soon,” Thorin said. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out over the still waters. A faint breeze stirred his hair and, with the moonlight silvering Thorin’s features, Bilbo could think of no word short of _majestic_ to describe the sight. “It was here in Kheled-zâram that my forebear, Durin the Deathless, saw his reflection crowned in seven stars and knew it was his fate to build Khazad-dûm and rule the seven families of the Dwarves.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Bilbo said, stepping to the pool’s edge. “Anyone can see their … oh.” Even as he peered over the water, he saw nothing, save the stars twinkling above. He briefly thought of wading in, but his instincts warned him against it.

“Vainly, I sought my own reflection,” Thorin spat. “I thought if I stood in Durin’s footsteps, it would be different from the last time I looked.”

“At Azanulbizar?” Bilbo guessed.

Thorin flinched. “We passed by Kheled-zâram on our way back to Dunland. Half the camp encouraged me to look. After the slaying of a single orc, they seemed to think me worthy of Durin’s crown, even after I had lost more than half of my command.”

“Thorin, there is something I should tell you.” Thorin half-turned in his direction. “I saw him. Azog. Just before Durin’s Doors closed, I saw a white orc on a white warg.”

Thorin closed his eyes. “As did I.” He sighed and for a long moment stood there, as still and remote as the monument itself. “Do you know how I earned the name _Oakenshield_?”

“Yes.”

In one smooth motion, Thorin unsheathed Orcrist and clove the wood shield in two. “It seems I no longer deserve the name.” He viciously kicked both halves away. “I should have killed that filth when I had the chance.”

“It was the heat of battle—”

“Azog has sworn to wipe out the Line of Durin,” Thorin said. “Fíli and Kíli are in danger and it is _my fault_.”

“I would say that we’ll probably see him again, but I hope it isn’t true,” Bilbo said. “In any case, I won’t let anything happen to anyone in the company. Azog seems like such an unpleasant fellow! His appearance would be greatly improved by having the skin cooked off him. In any case, I won’t let anything happen to you or anyone else in the company.”

“I know,” Thorin said. “And for that, and your actions in Khazad-dûm, I thank you. I had my doubts about you, Master Dragon, but you have since proved yourself an equal member of the company.”

Bilbo spluttered out some half-baked excuses about actually saving his own skin to disguise his pleasure. Suddenly, his wounds seemed inconsequential and all hints of tiredness vanished from his bones. He could fly all the way to Erebor if need be, carrying the entire company and their supplies. He could slay Smaug alone, and then drag his corpse out of the mountain and burn it to ashes. Thorin was proud of him and that was all that mattered.

Thorin said, “We should return to camp before they send out a search party.”

“Would you prefer to fly?” Bilbo asked and Thorin immediately paled.

“Dwarves were meant to go under the ground, not above it.”

“Suit yourself.”

And, bickering good-naturedly, they rejoined the company to plan for the next stage of their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  _Zantbarakâl_ — child that shows great promise in wielding an axe


	8. Holbytla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company enters the realm of Rohan and meets her people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **V:** The editing on this is a little rushed because mudkippy and I both got sick and had a huge exam this week, forgive us for that!

By Balin’s reckoning, the company traveled nearly two hundred miles in five days, skirting Lórien’s southern borders and penetrating the heart of the Field of Celebrant. The terrain had transformed from sharp shale headland to the rolling hillocks of Rohan, and it was here that they made the best time; the Dwarves covered ten leagues a day. Bilbo often flew ahead, always on patrol for any orcs, but there was no sign of them. The most dangerous thing he encountered was an eldritch aura emanating from the forest of Lothlorien; he gave it a wide berth.

Still, he never traveled more than thirty leagues from the company. He could never quite shake the fear that disaster would strike the moment he vanished above the clouds, so he stayed within sight — to him, at least. Having such tiny dark-loving eyes, he doubted the Dwarves noticed him at all. All their focus was bent on putting one foot before the other, to cresting the next hill, or keeping pace with the others. Bilbo knew this because he could _feel_ it, as if he were running in their midst. Even when he was at peace far above, he could not escape their heartbeats pounding through his ears.

Bilbo’s awareness did not, unfortunately, extend to other creatures. Otherwise, he would have warned away the poor Edain girl, before she was forever scarred by the sight of the company bathing. Bilbo had to admit the sight of five naked Dwarves off-putting for him, let alone the uninitiated. The girl shrieked in surprise — or disgust — and hopped onto her mount, galloping south.

“Should we have shot her?” Nori asked.

“Absolutely not,” Balin scolded, wringing out his shirt. “She’ll be back within the hour with more Men to question us, and then they will take us to their village.”

“She looked like a normal Man!” Kíli exclaimed.

“What were you expecting?” Glóin asked.

“They couple with their horses, don’t they?” He sounded almost disappointed. “I expected, you know…” He curled his hands as a demonstration “…hooves.”

Fíli shoved him back into the water.

“Don’t mention that in front of the Rohirrim,” Balin cautioned. “They’re as proud as any Dwarf and just as quick to anger.”

“Don’t we know,” Glóin groused as he set his socks out to dry. “I canna tell you how many times I’ve had to remake horseshoes for these nomads because _it’s not beautiful enough for the horse_.”

“Damn them and their horses!” Dwalin exclaimed. “If I have to make one more copper pony brooch, I’ll eat my boots.”

“Or illustrate one more book on horse genealogy!” Ori added.

Bilbo drew himself onto the shore and basked in the midsummer sun, trying to ignore their increasingly derogative diatribe against the Rohirrim. All this talk of horses made him hungry.

Two hours later, a host of Men rode up from the south. They wore simple leather armor and emerald cloaks, but their helmets were forged of steel and mounted with flowing crests of horsehair. They circled the company in a bristling ring of spears, but the horses gave Bilbo a wide berth and did not allow the Men to close in.

“Who trespasses into the Riddermark?” the foremost of their riders asked. He rode the tallest horse and held himself proudly. “Speak, and swiftly, ere we judge you as foes!”

“We seek our kin in the Iron Hills,” Balin said. “We mean no harm to you and yours; merely passing through.”

“Dwarves do not pass through our lands this far north,” the Man said. “You would have followed the Anduin north if you took the High Pass and we would have looked for your coming near Edoras if you had taken the Gap.”

“We went through Khazad-dûm,” Balin said.

The Men stirred and spoke amongst themselves in their own tongue. The company seemed irritated, and Bilbo could not help but think it served them right.

“How do we know you’re not Orc spies or Dunlendings in disguise?” the leader asked, pointing his spear at Thorin’s heart.

“Do we look like Men?” Kíli demanded.

Dwalin shoved the spearpoint aside and said, “We don’t act like them, or else we would have attacked you lot already for that insult.”

Bilbo walked between them and stuck out his hairy feet. “Men don’t have these, and no Orc spy does either. My name is Bilbo Baggins and I am a hobbit, from the west of the Misty Mountains. I have no care for your petty quarrels, only a place by the fire for myself and my companions.”

The head rider removed his helmet, revealing ruddy features and a thatch of long, blond hair. “Are you a … a _holbytla_?” he asked, sounding almost awed.

“Hobbit,” Bilbo corrected. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“We have stories of your folk from our first days in the Wold,” the man said. “It is said you are a benevolent people—” His expression turned wary “—but prone to disappearing at will and playing pranks upon the unwise.”

“That sounds like Bilbo,” Fíli muttered.

“I would not dare prank someone who might provide me with the first roof over my head for weeks,” Bilbo said. “We hobbits think with our stomachs and there isn’t an ounce of mischief in us if food is in the offing. And if I disappeared, you would have one less problem on your hands.”

Their leader tapped his lower lip, then shrugged roughly, his smile already returning. “Very well. I, Deorwine, son of Galwine, henceforth make you a guest of my house. Tonight, you are welcome to the food and fire beneath my roof.”

Bilbo’s heart leapt at the sound of roofs and food. “And my companions?”

“We will deal with them in town,” Deorwine said, putting on his helmet.

“They’re all the reputable sort. Very reasonable. You won’t find a fiercer or more loyal company on this side of the Misty Mountains.”

“That remains to be seen,” Deorwine said. He hoisted Bilbo into the saddle. “You are heavier than you appear, Master Holbytla, but you will be no burden to Leofa, whose dam was Gytha and whose sire was Earic of the thundering hooves. Come now! Our village is not far.”

The Rohirrim circled the company and drove them forward, their spears never far from the Dwarves’ necks. Balin cast Bilbo a pleading look.

“Really, they mean no harm to you,” Bilbo said to Deorwine. “Surely they don’t need to be prodded along like a bunch of sheep.”

“We are not accustomed to Dwarves in these parts,” said Deorwine. “It is as much to ease the minds of my people as it is to restrain them until we know more of their intentions. I sense a deeper truth at hand. But come! Tell me of your people, for we had long feared them dead.”

“There is little to say,” Bilbo admitted, but recounted the details of the hobbit settlements in Eriador, from their farms to their great houses, such as they were. He could not see Deorwine’s face, but the Man never asked him to stop, only to clarify certain points as to their agricultural systems or something similar. But when Bilbo came to recounting the great Took breweries and the hobbits’ love of drink, Deorwine laughed.

“I am gladdened to hear the holbytla have such festivities,” he said, “but I do not find your boasts of hobbit fortitude to ring true. For you are small, and surely any brew made for your type would be lighter than any made for Men.”

“I’ve seen it knock Dwarves back onto their heels,” Bilbo boasted. “Men fall over in minutes. I can hold my liquor rather well, I’ll have you know.”

“I believe every other part of your tale except this one,” Deorwine said. “But I admit, I would like to see a holbytla face down some of our fiercest ale.”

An idea — a horrible one, admittedly — popped into Bilbo’s mind. “Then I have a proposition.”

“I’m listening,” Deorwine said.

“You and I will have a drinking contest. If I win—”

Anything else Bilbo had wanted to say was cut off by Deorwine’s booming laughter. “A drinking contest? Against such a small creature? That would hardly be fair!”

“If I win,” Bilbo continued, “you’ll set the Dwarves free. If I lose, you can—” He waved his hand vaguely “—do what you want with them. They’re very skilled at making horseshoes.”

A wave of complaints rolled up from behind them. Bilbo twisted around and shot the Dwarves a quelling glare. He didn’t hear any of _them_ coming up with a better solution. In response, the Dwarves signed many rude things in Inglishmêk. Bilbo, who had since learned some profanities from Bifur, signed back.

Still chuckling, Deorwine said, “I acquiesce, Master Baggins! This shall be embarrassing or legendary, to be sure!”

* * *

It was unclear where the competition had ended and the party began. Bilbo had been winning, by the look of Deorwine’s increasingly reddening complexion, when several of the other Rohirrim decided they wanted to match tankards with the _holbytla_. A few turned to several, then most of the adults in the village, until the company’s guards joined in, too. Bilbo even saw one of them offering a tankard to Dwalin.

“All hail the hobbits, halest of all races!” one of the Rohirrim cried, raising his mug in a toast. “Truly, this is a legend we will tell for generations to come.”

Bilbo inclined his head graciously, as if it were his natural due. Inside, he was preening. He was a _legend_!

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Dori warned, correctly reading the glint in Bilbo’s eye.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Dori!” Kíli exclaimed, throwing his arms around the both of them. “We’ll all be famous after we reclaim Erebor!”

“Not here,” Fíli warned. “And uncle doesn’t want us to drink too much. As nice as these Men are—”

Kíli stuck out his tongue. “Have it your way, brother. I’m getting myself another drink.”

Another drink turned into two, then three, and before long the whole village had joined in the revel. In retrospect, Bilbo would have difficulty piecing together the sequence of events that had led to him sitting in the house of Deorwine’s half-sister, Thengara, with half the town, but he wasn’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth. After all, he had been fed, and despite drinking half his weight earlier in the afternoon, he still had room to eat three chickens. He could have eaten more, but his manners prevented him from further gluttony.

The rowdy conversation died down as the Men grew tired and retired to their homes. Some stragglers remained, bravely facing down Dwalin in wrestling matches, but they were few and far between. Thengara’s home was crowded with the Rohirrim and the Company inside. The night promised to be hot and sticky, but Bilbo had few objections to being so near to the Dwarves.

It was quickly discovered that the Rohirrim shared a love of stories and storytelling with Hobbits. Thengara and Bilbo spent some time trading the stories of their people. He was particularly interested in the stories of the Hobbits and Thengara’s wonder and love for them.

Many of the Dwarves had been lulled to sleep by the constant trading of stories, but Bilbo found Thengara’s tales fascinating. He had not been on this side of the Misty Mountains for thousands of years and found that the more he heard the more he wanted to know. He finished a short tale about a particularly unsuccessful thain.

“There is much and more that we could teach each other, _holbytla_ , if only I were not so tired,” Thengara said, covering her mouth as she yawned. “I will tell one more.”

Then Kili said, with a wry grin at Bilbo, “Let’s have a dragon story!”

The Rohirrim quieted as they considered his request. Then Thengara said, “We have only one, and that is the tale of Scatha, Terror of the North.”

The Men hummed in agreement, seeming to draw closer to one another.

“Scatha was the last and greatest of the Long-wyrms, a race of flightless dragons who once populated the North,” Thengara continued. “He was a beast of Morgoth, scion of the wyrms of old, and there was naught in his black heart but greed and malice. In the Third Age, he ventured south, terrorizing the Men and Dwarves of the Wilderland for many years, amassing a vast store of treasure — even greater than that which now sits beneath the claws of Smaug in Erebor. It seemed none could stop his rampage. Then he attacked the village of Men that our forbear, Fram, called home, slaying many of his friends and family. He swore a vow of enmity against the vile beast and tirelessly tracked it on foot, following it for twelve nights and twelve days. On the thirteenth morning, he surprised Scatha while he bathed in the morning light and slew him with his father’s sword.”

Bilbo had not expected a cheerier ending to the story, so he nodded appreciatively.

“Were that were the end of this sorry tale,” Thengara said. “But woe! The treasures of Scatha were now Fram’s by right, but the avaricious Dwarves—”

“But the Northmen, in their greed, refused to return the sacred treasures Scatha had looted from our dwellings,” Balin interrupted. “And—”

“The Dwarves demanded more than their fair share under the pretense of rebuilding their lands,” Thengara said waspishly. “They tried to turn their failure to defeat the dragon into a font of pity. It—”

“Fram claimed Scatha’s treasure as weregild for his dead companions,” Thorin rebutted. “Yet who was he to do that when the Dwarves had lost countless scores of—”

“Oh, stop it!” Bilbo snapped, sitting forward. “Scatha’s shade would writhe in pleasure to see such strife. Let’s agree that bygones are bygones, and that all dragons are naught but evil.”

“Here, here,” said Deorwine, and the Dwarves and Men toasted to that. It was not long before more pleasant conversation reigned once more: to be specific, the best way to gut an Orc.

Bilbo was too well-bred — in a manner of speaking — to have such gory discussions around the dinner table. He slipped away from the table and stumbled outside, sitting down on the lush green grass. It was a beautiful summer evening, with the crickets chirping softly in the shadow of the house and the swallows swooping low over the fields. To the west, the sun had just set over Rohan’s rolling hills, with scarcely a cloud to impede the view. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes, content.

“Hey,” Kíli, dropping down next to him.

Bilbo opened one eye — _both eyelids,_ he had to remind himself. “What a beautiful evening.”

“Oh.” Kíli fidgeted, perhaps settling into a more comfortable position. “There’s so much of Middle Earth, isn’t there?”

“And to think, I wasted so many years sitting under a hill in Hobbiton,” Bilbo said. “I should have been out here—” He suppressed a burp “—adventuring with the likes of you.”

Kíli sobered. “I wish it was just an adventure.”

“Reclaiming Erebor is the most important part,” Bilbo added. “I know what it’s like to find one’s home.”

“D’you …?” The Dwarf trailed off, tugging at the grass by his side. “D’you think I’ll be a good prince?”

“I don’t know if you should be asking me,” Bilbo said. “The only standard for leadership I have is the Dark Lord Sauron.”

“I didn’t mean to make you remember—”

“No, no.” Bilbo shook his head ponderously. “Think nothing of it. I have lived under my fair share of Thains and Mayors in the Shire, not to mention those boisterous Tooks who _think_ they own everything. There are many ways to be a good leader, and not all of them are being a stuffed shirt like your uncle Thorin.”

“He’s a good leader!”

“I agree,” Bilbo said, “but there are times when he ought to loosen up. It must be painful, feeling the need to look majestic all the time. Never mind that I think he would wear goblin guts well…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Leaders need to be quick-witted and kind and boisterous and swift to forgive, no matter what the other Dwarves would have you think. And you have those qualities in abun …” Bilbo frowned as he struggled to remember the word. “Ah, abundance.”

“And I’ll always have Fíli to balance me,” Kíli said.

“As he’ll always have you.”

Kíli mulled this over for a moment. “Thanks, Uncle Bilbo.”

It was not uncommon for Hobbits to absorb each other into families, particularly those like Bilbo who had no family to claim. He had been Uncle Bilbo for nearly as long as he had been a Hobbit. Yet Dwarves were not so quick to do so, Bilbo thought, and found a deeper meaning in Kili’s assignment of the title.. “You’re welcome. Was there something else you wanted?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kíli turned to him, a wicked grin stretching his face. “Can I fly with you?”

After several more excursions, Bilbo felt confident that he could carry at least one Dwarf, especially one as small as Kíli. Whether he would feel comfortable doing it was a different matter entirely — where would Kíli even sit? Thorin had merely hung off the side, seconds from falling. “Talk to your uncle.”

“Is that a yes?”

Bilbo sighed. “It’s not a _no_.”

Kíli whooped in excitement and sprang to his feet. “You won’t regret this, Uncle Bilbo — I promise.” He started in the direction of the town. “I’ll have the answer to you in no time!”

Bilbo watched him go and laid back down in the grass. The bright stars were just beginning to pierce through the dusky purple sky. He would have liked to go flying if the Rohirrim were not so close.

Tentatively, he stretched his awareness in the direction of the village. He sensed every member of the company: not merely hearing them or smelling them, but _knowing_ that they were all content and safe. Some of them were still recovering from wounds sustained in Moria, but, for the first time in days, the undercurrent of stress had dissipated.

Everything would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **V:** At some point in this, Bilbo mentions opening both of his eyelids. He's got two sets, the normal eyelids and a second set that keeps his eyes from drying out/getting junk in them and stuff. Also, in an earlier draft of this chapter the Rohirrim wanted to hunt the dwarves down for sport, but mudkippy and I decided to make the Rohirrim less extra.  
>  **M:** Durin the Deathless = Dwarf Chuck Norris. To whit:
> 
> Once an Orc stabbed Durin with a Morgul blade. After ten excruciating days, the Morgul blade dissolved into nothing.  
> Durin I didn’t have an army. He had himself.  
> Morgoth feeds off pure hate and fear. Durin I feeds off Morgoth.  
> The only reason Morgoth fought the Elves was because he knew he couldn’t take on Durin I.  
> Durin I is never late. Time slows down for him.  
> Mahal didn’t make Durin I. Durin I made Mahal.  
> Durin I doesn’t exhale. The air flees from his lungs.  
> Durin the Deathless doesn’t retreat. He charges backward.


	9. A Wizard is Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With heavy hearts and heavier hangovers, the Company leaves the village in Rohan. Now mounted on sturdy steeds of the finest horseflesh in Arda, they make their way to the Southern edge of Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Apologies for that wait. Mudkippy got a boyfriend and I found out that I'm going to Antarctica for an extended period of time and had to prepare. Not to mention schoolwork. That also happened. But we're back with a fresh new chapter. This time with horses.

The morning saw them all nursing fierce headaches as they staggered from their beds. Normally, Bilbo would have been immune such an affliction, but the compounded pain of thirteen hangovers slamming against his skull was more than he could bear. He sincerely wished he had the wherewithal to bid his Rohirric hosts a proper farewell, but it was all he could do to hold his vomit when Deorwine, then Thengara, spun him around in an embrace.

“Should you ever pass this way again, you will be welcomed at my house,” Deorwine said.

“And to mine, if you visit our fair capital, Edoras,” Thengara added.

“It was an honor to have stayed here,” Bilbo managed. “I will return, one day.”

“Then I shall hold you to your word, Master Hobbit,” Deorwine said. “Farewell! And do not allow those Dwarves to order you about!”

Dwalin very deliberately rolled his eyes.

“Not to worry,” Bilbo said, tapping Nagtelch’s scabbard. “I manage them well enough.”

“A stout heart may serve you where might cannot,” Thengara said sagely. She handed Bilbo his pack, now stuffed with food and a few sets of children’s clothing. “May the roads remain clear and safe all the way to the Iron Hills.” Her eyes then widened as she looked behind him. She began to laugh heartily, and Bilbo turned to look..

The Rohirrim had been kind enough — with some monetary persuasion — to give the company riding horses. At the time, there had been a few complaints about the size and nature of their mounts, and Bilbo was beginning to see why as he studied the bizarre scene unfolding in front of him.

Several of the Dwarves — the tallest, Bilbo noted — were already mounted, but most still struggled. Bifur hopped around in a circle with his foot caught in the stirrup as Bofur tried to reach down to help him without falling out of the saddle himself. Ori and his horse were glaring at each other, and Glóin was attempting to give Oin a leg up onto the horse’s back. The horse shied and Oin caught only the saddle horn, which he clung to doggedly. Fíli had unsurprisingly chosen the most spirited horse of the lot, and he and his brother fought for control as it threatened to dump them into the mud.

“We could throw you into the saddles,” Thengara suggested, flexing her bare — and very powerful — arms.

“No one tosses a Dwarf!” Nori hissed from where he was draped over his saddle. Unfortunately, this only triggered another round of laughter from the watching Rohirrim.

After much cursing, wriggling, and tears, the Dwarves — and Bilbo, but with less strife, since he had allowed Thengara to lift him — managed to array themselves on their mounts. The horses did not seem bothered by Bilbo’s presence, which irked him. He wanted his hatred to be justified. Just to make it clear, he said, “I hate riding.”

“I don’t see why you like flying, then,” Bofur said, sounding apprehensive. “Ten feet, ten miles — what’s the difference? Dwarves weren’t meant to leave the ground.”

Bilbo scowled. “Then how do you explain all those gaping chasms in Moria? I couldn’t see the bottom, but your ancestors thought it was perfectly fine not to put up so much as a guard rope.”

“That’s different,” Oin objected. “The chasms are already underground.”

“What if someone fell in?”

“That just means a lighter coffin,” Bofur said, eyes twinkling wickedly.

“Are we ready to leave?” Thorin asked, wheeling his bay towards them. Bilbo was displeased to note that, though he didn’t seem at home on his mount, Thorin looked every bit magnificent mounted as he did on the ground.

“Does Erebor have railings?” Bilbo asked him.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “No. Why would we waste the stone like that?”

“We’re ready,” Bofur said, just as Bilbo was about to begin voicing his concerns. No railings!

With a parting wave to their hosts, the Dwarves spurred their horses eastward. The Rohirrim had not lied about their horses’ speed and the village of Men soon vanished from sight.

The Rohirrim had had only ten horses to spare, so it in the interest of preserving their mounts, Balin had been decided that some of the Dwarves would ride double, Bilbo would fly, and Kíli would fly with him. Unfortunately, Bilbo still had to ride out of the village so as not to alarm the Rohirrim. He had hoped that Thorin would stop soon, but they rode until lunch, covering a distance of nearly three leagues.

Bilbo slid off his horse on stiff legs, a scowl etched into his features, and gladly transformed into a dragon. Kíli threw himself onto Bilbo’s back, clambering to rest just in front of Bilbo’s wings, his legs dangling over on either side of his neck.

“It will be cold,” Thorin warned Kíli, who wore only a light tunic.

“I won’t notice, _’amad_ ,” Kíli said, rolling his eyes.

“Be safe, then,” Thorin said, with some reluctance. “Take care of him, Bilbo.”

Bilbo made the softest, most comforting hiss he could manage. Then he sprinted into the open fields, beating his wings until the ground fell away beneath his clawed feet. Kíli whooped in excitement and leaned low against Bilbo’s scales.

The winds closest to the ground were always fierce, but a few hundred feet above, Bilbo had his choice of several gentle currents. He chose a westward one and began to coast over Rohan’s broad fields. He followed the company’s tracks westward, back towards the Misty Mountains. Within minutes, he passed over Deorwine’s village, but he was so high in the sky that any onlookers would have mistaken him for a hawk.

Kíli, for his part, seemed stunned into silence. His grip around Bilbo’s neck had loosened and it felt as if he were sitting upright. Bilbo wished he could ask Kíli how he felt or just to chat to pass the time, but his vocabulary as a dragon was severely limited.

A few hours drifted by and the terrain began to fold like mussed sheets, with sweeping grass giving way to rocky headland. The Misty Mountains loomed in the distance, cloaked in their usual shrouds of cloud. The air was cooler here, and the wind stronger. Before, Bilbo had rarely needed to flap, but now he had trouble just preventing himself from being swept back to Rohan by the fierce winds off of the mountains. Still, his vigilance did not falter and he saw no signs of Azog’s passage, nor that of any wargs.

So keen was his lookout on the land below that he failed to notice they had company in the skies. “Look out!” Kíli yelled, startling Bilbo from his search. Bilbo twisted around just in time to see two enormous yellow talons descending towards his face. He slammed his wings to his sides and clumsily dove backwards, eager only to escape. Another eagle was waiting right below, its talons already stretched wide.

Bilbo snarled a warning to Kíli before flaring his wings, stalling them in midair. The eagle careened past, its claws missing Bilbo’s flank by inches.

The first eagle’s sharp cry warned Bilbo of its return and he narrowly missed colliding with it. As he turned east, he counted five eagles circling above; Bilbo was dangerously outmatched. He had neither the advantages of height nor cloud cover, and incinerating even one of them would leave him and Kíli vulnerable.

Bilbo pumped his wings furiously, heading for the craggy foothills at the swiftest speed he could attain. The eagles trailed a mile or two over his head, easily keeping pace. Bilbo banked steeply around a cliff, then around another, hoping the birds would lose him amidst the rough terrain. He scanned the rocks for a cave or depression to hide in.

“They’re diving!” Kíli shouted, and Bilbo landed awkwardly atop a rocky spire to watch them descend, their chestnut feathers gleaming dully beneath the cloudy sky. When it was clear they could not divert from their course, Bilbo pushed backward off the rock, falling into the deep valley below. He righted himself as soon as he was able and flew dangerously close to the valley’s arms in an effort to prevent the eagles from flanking him. A massive rush of wind told him that the eagles had passed, and Bilbo turned his snout towards the sky, eager to gain altitude over Manwë’s hunters.

“They’re behind us!” Kíli said.

 _Let’s hope they stay that way,_ Bilbo thought grimly. Evading the eagles would take time and the company would worry at their absence. The mere thought of a prolonged separation tied Bilbo’s stomach into knots.

Suddenly, an eagle struck him, its talons encircling his neck and belly. Kíli's grip loosened and Bilbo leveled out to prevent him from slipping. The eagle seized its chance to to shift its claws from his neck to his wing, forcing it down, and they began to spiral down to earth in a mess of feathers, scales, and claws. The eagle pecked at Bilbo's head, aiming for his eyes. Bilbo ducked, allowed it to nip his crest instead. Then Bilbo tore out a mouthful after mouthful of its wing feathers, and scoured its breast with his claws until the bird's hot blood ran down his belly. Still the eagle clung to his wing with grim determination, its talons puncturing the the delicate skin of Bilbo’s wing.

He heard a soft _twang_ from behind him and an arrow pierced the eagle’s wing, just above the shoulder. The eagle screeched in surprise and dropped Bilbo entirely, fleeing for the safety of the clouds as the downdraft from its wings pummeled them. Bilbo arrested their fall — too sharply. Kíli was torn from his back.

“Bilbo!” Kíli cried.

Bilbo dove for Kíli, who was tumbling uncontrollably through the air, his arms wrapped around his quiver. The ground was perhaps five or six seconds away, and he had—

One of the eagles came up from under him, catching Kíli easily before darting away.

Bilbo’s vision went red. These rotten featherballs had no business with _his_ Dwarves, _his_ hoard. He bore down on the bird, sharply inhaling as he prepared to roast the feathery beast to its bones.

_Stop!_

Gandalf's voice echoed through Bilbo's head, even though it was impossible for the wizard to have been there. Then an eagle swooped past, bearing a grey-robed figured on its back. The wizard shook his staff at Bilbo angrily.

 _The eagles of Manwë mean you no harm,_ Gandalf continued. _They mistook you for the firedrakes of old and thought you would visit evil upon this land._

 _No further harm, you mean!_ Bilbo fumed. _I’ll be recovering for a week!_

_And you injured Gwaihir, their lord. You cannot play the innocent here._

Bilbo ground his teeth. Five eagles against one dragon hardly seemed fair. _At least make them return Kíli._

 _He will be safe with Landroval_ , Gandalf said. Bilbo doubted that, but kept his reservations silent for fear of chastisement. _Now lead me back to the company. I have been away for far too long … and tell me what has passed since Tharbad. You need not say it, only think it._

Bilbo angled eastward, flapping steadily as he recalled being chased through Hollin and their time in the mines of Moria. He felt Gandalf flinch when he reached the part about the balrog, but Bilbo pressed on, now eliding almost all of his conversations with the Dwarves. He finished up with their time in Rohan, ending with an image of the company riding far below.

 _It seems you_ have _been busy,_ Gandalf said at last.

Bilbo said nothing in return as he began a slow descent on strained wings. Again, he had located the company with unerring precision, even though they had traveled much farther than he had anticipated. He landed a quarter mile ahead of them on the highest rock he could find, forcing the eagles — and Gandalf — to perch beneath. One of the smaller eagles landed beside him, and they eyed each other uneasily.

Kíli slid off the back of his eagle and went over to Gwaihir — the one with an arrow sticking out of its chest.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Eagle,” Kíli said, bowing hastily. “I just didn’t want you killing my friend.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, the eagle spoke. “Do not apologize. It was a fine shot.” He yanked the arrow and several feathers from his shoulder and spat it out at Kíli’s feet. “Take them as a reminder of the time you wounded Gwaihir the Windlord. May your aim always be as true, young Dwarf.”

Kíli snatched up the arrow and feathers, an awestruck expression on his face. Bilbo shattered the rocks beneath his paws to mask his jealousy.

“It seems our time with you has come to an end, Mithrandir,” Gwaihir said. “Farewell!”

“And to you as well, my old friend,” Gandalf said, bowing to him. Bilbo sincerely hoped he wasn’t expected to genuflect for one of Manwë’s pigeons. Gandalf glared at him, as if he knew what Bilbo had been thinking. “If my friend should pass this way again, might I suggest not attacking him? Although he is a dragon, through great effort of his own, he overthrew Sauron’s hold on him and is now … ah, entirely benevolent.”

The grip of Gwaihir’s eyes was even more powerful than that of his claws and Bilbo resisted the urge to squirm away. “I still sense a darkness in this creature … but there is good, as well.” He inclined his mighty head. “You have my word, from one lord of the sky to another, that me and mine shall never attack you again.”

Bilbo, for his part, could do nothing more than purr in satisfaction. _Lord of the Sky_ was a noble — and appropriate — epithet.

The eagles took off in a rush of air just as the company rounded the top of the hill, pulling their mounts just short of their companions.

“Mister Gandalf?” Dori asked.

Gandalf smiled. “Yes, it is I, rejoining you at last, albeit briefly.”

“Briefly?” Ori asked. “But we’re not even halfway to Erebor!”

“Peace, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf said. “I will explain.” He peered at the western horizon, the sunset’s orange light seeping into the crags on his face. “Yes, this is a good time and place for you to stop for the evening.”

“It’s scarcely nightfall,” Thorin said.

“And your foes are many leagues behind you,” Gandalf said. “I spotted them when I flew over the mountains — looking for you, at first, but finding only Azog. Crossing over the Redhorn Pass halved his numbers and they lick their wounds in the Dimrill Dale, chasing a trail that is over a week old. Even Gundabad wargs will have difficulty with that!”

“I thought Azog was dead,” Ori said. “He was slain long ago.”

The company looked to Thorin. With great difficulty, he said, “It seems that he survived. Master Baggins saw him before the Watcher collapsed Durin’s Gate.”

Dwalin stepped forward, putting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light.”

“I had hoped so,” Thorin said gravely. “Yet Master Baggins sees even better than we do in the darkness and now Gandalf has confirmed it. It seems that foul orc survived after all.”

“We should keep moving,” Balin said, an undercurrent of fear coloring his voice. “Many of us are of the Line of Durin and he would not miss the opportunity to slay us all.” 

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled as he leaned on his staff. “May I also add that the eagles took great umbrage to the passage of orcs under their eyries.”

“Is he dead?” Dwalin asked.

“He’s far too crafty for them,” Gandalf said. “But all of his wargs are dead, and reinforcements are far afield. It is safe here.”

The company set about their evening tasks: Ori, Nori, and Fíli picketed the horses; Dori, Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, and Bofur searched for firewood; Bombur and Oin fussed over dinner; and Glóin bent over the tinder, coaxing a flame from the small pile. Kíli was ostensibly caring for the horses, but he was so involved in recounting his adventure that he hindered everyone’s productivity more than he helped.

Bilbo, who was dressing behind a nearby rock, had the misfortune to hear his actions retold in grisly detail.

“And then I was falling — but it didn’t feel awful at all,” Kíli was saying to his brother. “The whole world was stretched out under me like a green tapestry. It was beautiful.” He sighed. “You should come with me next time, if Uncle Bilbo will let you.”

Fíli sniggered. “Are you going to keep calling him that?”

Bilbo paused with his shirt halfway over his head, listening intently.

“He likes it.”

“But does he know why you’re using it?”

“Of course not!”

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, interrupting his eavesdropping.

Looking incredibly guilty, Bilbo hastily pulled his shirt down and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. “Sorry, did I miss something?’

“Dinner, almost,” Thorin said. “I heard my nephew had some excitement today.”

“It was all within my control,” Bilbo assured him. “It was fun having someone up there with me.”

Thorin quirked an eyebrow. “And to have someone to shoot eagles off your back.”

“He made it sound worse than it was,” Bilbo said.

“I can’t imagine how he could make flying sound worse.”

He spoke with such distaste that Bilbo laughed. “I thought it was everyone’s dream to fly.”

“Elves and Men, perhaps,” Thorin said. “They have always looked to the sky for the rhythms of their lives. But Khazâd were made from different stock and it is our maker’s earth and stone that we long to explore.”

“Would I be more interesting to _cay-zud_ if I were a giant mole, then?”

Thorin grinned. “Ah! Imagine following you to the deepest depths of the world, deeper than even we have delved. Imagine what veins we would find so far down. Rivers of mithril, galaxies of rubies, shimmering seas of opal—”

Bilbo stalked past him and teased, “I think I would like my fill of hot stew instead of Dwarvish lies.”

“Ah!” Gandalf said when they came into sight. “So nice of you to join us. Bombur was just about to take your share.”

Bombur shook his head insistently.

“Ah, we would have blamed the wizard first,” Bofur told him.

“To no avail,” Bilbo said, sitting at Gandalf’s side. “He exists on nothing but the finest Old Toby.” He inhaled deeply. “In fact, you have some with you right now.”

“To think I could have deceived a dragon,” Gandalf grumbled as he handed his pouch and his pipe over to Bilbo. “I went through a great deal of trouble convincing Lord Elrond to part with it, so don’t smoke it all. I should like something to soften my throat before I begin to tell you of what has transpired in your absence.”

“You haven’t even heard what we’ve been up to!” Fíli said.

“Bilbo already told me everything.”

Fíli slumped over, crestfallen. Bilbo discreetly kicked the wizard.

“But I should very much like to hear it again,” Gandalf added. “It might be that Bilbo left out something important.”

“That’s likely,” Ori said. “He spent weeks telling me about Shire history, but he doesn’t know anything about any of the Durins.”

“Proof that I only remember things that matter,” Bilbo sniffed, to general derision.

The company took turns telling the story, often out-shouting one another when someone thought they could tell the tale better. Kíli and Fíli leapt to their feet during the battles, pulling whoever was nearest to join in on their reenactments. Bifur, enthusiastically serving as the balrog, almost pushed Dori into the fire.

Bilbo noted that while they were particularly long-winded about the battles, the company often omitted their thoughts and feelings, especially about Bilbo, the Rohirrim, and Moria. Their rest in Azanulbizar was glossed over in a sentence. Knowing what actually transpired gave Bilbo a sense of privilege and belonging, and he felt rather smug as he sat beside Gandalf and smoked more pipeweed than he ought to have.

“My part is considerably less exciting, but more fraught with worry,” Gandalf said. “My only consolation was that you had the sense to bring Bilbo, but, as you no doubt have learned, he does not possess the greatest measure of common sense.”

Bilbo chose not to respond.

“After my dealings with Bombadil, I went to meet you in Tharbad, where I found that you had departed a week prior. I thought you had merely tired of the city, but a quick search revealed that you had vanished entirely. I found some Dunlendings who told me of Dwarves traveling east, and I feared the worst.” He glared at them from under his bushy eyebrows. “You are very lucky to have all escaped Moria in one piece. It is a feat you should be proud of — but in no hurry to repeat! I hope your time in the shadow of Durin’s Bane has shown you how impossible retaking that city would be.”

“We need no further lecture,” Thorin said waspishly.

Bilbo realized that sitting between Thorin and Gandalf could be dangerous — for anyone other than an extremely powerful dragon. He had bested a balrog; surely mediating a fight between the two would be easier.

“Instead of following you, I rode to Rivendell and passed some time there with Lord Elrond before making for the eagles’ eyries near the High Pass. If you were still alive at that point, I knew to look for you on the eastern slopes. Instead, I found Azog, and then shortly thereafter Bilbo and Kíli.”

“You ordered the eagles to attack my kin?” Thorin asked.

“Five of their youngest eagles were in the vanguard,” Gandalf said. “They became … excited, much as your nephews can be — and before you take umbrage, remember that they are the Eagles of Manwë; you would do well not to rouse their wrath.”

Thorin scowled.

“Now,” Gandalf said, “I assume you are heading south under Mirkwood and then north along its eastern border. I will travel with you for a time and lead you to a safe place where you might rest before completing the last leg of your journey.”

“For a time?” Dori asked, his voice heavy with dismay. “What other business do you have?”

“There have been reports of a necromancer who has taken up refuge in Dol Guldur, an old fortress in the south of Mirkwood,” Gandalf said. “It is my duty to investigate these rumors, and put them to rest, if possible. I will rejoin you before you enter Erebor. In fact, I don’t want you to enter that mountain at all unless I am with you.”

“We will wait,” Balin said. “For a time.”

“What is this _safe place_ you intend to take us to?” Thorin asked.

“Another member of my order, Radagast the Brown, keeps his home even farther south than Dol Guldur,” Gandalf said. “No creature of evil will be able to pass by his dwelling and, if they try, Radagast will take them off your scent.”

“There wouldn’t be any Elves in that part of the woods, would there be?” Glóin asked.

“Not for many an age,” Gandalf said. “Thranduil’s domain — since it is him you fear—”

“Fear?” Dwalin demanded. “By my beard, if I ever saw that traitor, I’d behead him with a blunt knife!”

“It’s us he should be fearing!” Ori cried bravely.

As the Dwarves made threats of ever-increasing violence, Bilbo sat in thought. He wondered if Thranduil still had his old sword, or if he remembered Bilbo had torn Oropher’s head from his body. Bilbo hoped for the former, at least; he wanted it back.

“I would never take you to the Elvenking’s halls,” Gandalf was saying. “I know of the animosity that lies between you.”

“He left us to starve,” Thorin hissed. “That oathbreaker knows nothing of loyalty or kindness, and I would never treat him other than how he deserves.”

“Then it’s a good thing you are not going anywhere near his realm,” Gandalf said, exasperated. “Now, we should all rest. We still have far to travel.”

* * *

Since Gandalf did not have his own horse, their travel arrangements changed. The wizard received his own horse and most of the company still rode, but now Bilbo had to serve as their pack mule. He now spent his days ferrying Ori, Fíli, Kíli, and Bifur — the lightest three, and someone to watch over them — from the previous night's camp to where he thought the company would stop that evening. Flying Kíli had been no trouble, owing to his natural fearlessness, but the others were a different matter entirely. Ori clung to his neck so tightly that Bilbo nearly suffocated, Bifur insisted on flying so close to the ground that Bilbo’s claws could graze the tops of the grass, and Fíli tried his best to emulate Kíli’s bravado, but he always vomited upon returning to solid ground.

By the end of the week, they had reached Mirkwood’s border. Unlike a normal wood, there was no gentle progression from field to forest. A hard line of mature trees clearly demarcated the boundary between Rohan and Mirkwood as surely as a castle wall. Even though the setting sun was behind the forest, the snarl of branches and undergrowth blotted out the light entirely.

“Dismount your horses,” Gandalf ordered as he slid off his. “We can’t risk them carrying you away from the company. If you disappear, you may never be found again.”

“Some safe house this must be,” Dori complained.

“The best safe houses have something to ward off whoever’s looking for you,” Nori pointed out.

“This isn’t a ward,” Glóin said. “It’s all a trap.”

“Do not speak unkindly of the wood,” Gandalf warned. “You never know who may be listening.”

As if in response, a stiff wind rushed past, causing the trees to creak and nod. The company collectively shivered, and even Bilbo was not immune. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the trees — and when Bilbo found something awful to be familiar, it usually meant Sauron’s hands had tainted it.

“Our quest will not be stopped by some wind and wizard’s words,” Thorin said. He took his horse’s bridle and led it into the forest, Orcrist held before him. Dwalin followed behind, then Gandalf, then the rest of the company. Bilbo lingered for a moment in the field, staring wistfully eastward as he thought longingly of the Shire’s sun-dappled forests. By now, the Party Tree would have all its leaves, and the apple trees would be heavy with ripening fruit. There, it was the season for long walks and picnics by chuckling streams. Bilbo did not want to think about what might be in the water here. Not even being hunted by Azog had made him so paranoid. It felt like he was being constantly watched.

“Do you sense something?” Bofur asked after Bilbo looked over his shoulder for the hundredth time that hour.

“Sickness,” Bilbo said firmly. “This place is sick. But I don’t see anything.”

“Neither do I,” said Bofur. “That’s what’s worry me. Aren’t there supposed to be birds or animals in forests? Haven’t heard so much as a cricket.”

After Bofur pointed that out, the unsettling silence worried Bilbo more than anything. It felt like every move they made was louder than a thundercrack, warning every creature within miles of their presence.

Late on the night of the third day, Bilbo did finally hear something.

He was sitting on the edge of camp, absently gnawing on a strip of venison as he kept watch. Behind him, the company was settling down for the night as best they could; Bilbo knew none of them had slept well since entering Mirkwood, and their exhaustion was beginning to weigh him down.

Bilbo’s eyelids were just beginning to droop when he heard the voice. It began as a song, so soft that it fluttered just below Bilbo’s hearing. He tried to focus, scowling when its melody slipped from his grasp. He could tell only that it was coming from the north, so he stood up, ready to find its source. It was his business to ward the company and a melody in the middle of an eerily silent forest was something he should investigate.

His search would take him away from his Dwarves, though, and Bilbo paused as he remembered Gandalf’s warning. The forest was magical and Bilbo had no doubt it could turn him around for years, until he forgot about the company and the quest altogether .

The voice grew louder, more insistent. Bilbo dug in his heels; leaving the camp unguarded would be dangerous. What would Thorin think if he shirked his duties like that? Besides, he was as much a hobbit as a dragon and that meant he was sensible. Taking off after a pretty tune seemed the exact opposite of rational, even if it was nearby…

Bilbo took a step forward. Yes, it was not far; he could be there and back before anyone noticed he was gone. And he had found the company before; he was drawn to them as a moth to a flame.

He felt Thorin approaching and hastily sat back down, all thought of investigation utterly gone. But Thorin passed him by without speaking, heading into the forest.

“Thorin!” Bilbo hissed. “Thorin! Where are you going?”

Thorin turned to him and it was if all light had fled from his eyes. “There is … something I must find.”

“It’s a trick,” Bilbo said, standing. “An illusion. The forest is playing with us.”

“No.” Thorin shook his head ponderously. “I must go … my father’s ring … Erebor … the Arkenstone…”

Bilbo shook him. “Thorin! It’s not real.”

Thorin blinked, and the pallor receded from his cheeks. “Bilbo? What is it?”

“The voice,” Bilbo said. “You were going to follow it.”

“What…?” Thorin trailed off and visibly shivered as he peered deeper into the forest. “You can hear it, too?”

“Yes. It’s doing an awful job of convincing me, though,” Bilbo said. “As if I would leave the company for a song.”

“It promises me my father’s ring,” Thorin said. “The Dwarves were given seven rings of power, one for each clan. My father’s was the last in Arda, and he vanished with it.” He looked at the forest once more. “I don’t like that some trees know that.”

“I don’t think it’s the trees,” Bilbo muttered, half to himself. His master had spent many hours gloating about his rings of power, and how they had turned Men to his service and Dwarves to greed.

“It’s a good thing we have you to turn us from these dark paths,” Thorin said, smiling.

Bilbo felt unaccountably flustered. “It’s no great feat. I wouldn’t expect anyone else from this company.”

“How odd you are,” Thorin said, “bragging to no end of your gardening but refusing to accept praise for saving me from Mirkwood.” He put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “We should ensure no one else has—”

“They’re all here,” Bilbo said immediately. He had quite liked how Thorin had said _we_.

Thorin turned around, his lips moving soundlessly as he counted, sighing deeply when he reached twelve. “So they are. Do not forget to wake Oin for the watch.”

The voice nagged Bilbo for the next day. Bilbo remembered the dead look in Thorin’s eye and did his best to ignore it, as he might ignore a fly bite to avoid scratching. It became a game of how long he could forget about it.

Late in the afternoon of the next day, a profound change overtook Mirkwood. Just as Bilbo had sensed its decay and despair when he had entered, now he felt peaceful and refreshed. Instead of feeling closed and dark, the trees were more evenly spaced and shards of golden light pierced the emerald leaves.

“We are close,” Gandalf said. “Do not harm any animal, and tread lightly on the grass. I expect to receive enough grief for even showing you this house.”

The company eyed the moss and their own heavy boots apprehensively.

Bilbo carefully hopped between piles of leaf litter, struggling to prevent his heavy step from sinking too far into the ground, lest he disturb an earthworm or mole. He had had no dealings with any wizard other than Gandalf and he did not wish to learn that this Radagast was the most powerful after he had accidentally crushed a flower.

They entered a wide glade. For a moment, it seemed empty to their eyes, but at the far end, built around several beech trees, was a hut made of sticks and mud daub, with moss-covered bark shingles serving as the roof. Any cracks in the exterior were plugged with grass and dozens of birds nested in the roof’s uneven surface. Although the meadow was clearly wild, Bilbo sensed a greater pattern amidst the flowers nodding gently in the breeze.

“Let your horses loose,” Gandalf said. “They will not wander far. I believe Radagast is out and we should wait here for his return.”

Bilbo found that to be an excellent idea and laid down amidst the milk vetch, watching the bees float lazily between the lavender blooms. He was looking forward to a few days of much-deserved rest.

“Something’s coming,” Kíli warned, and Bilbo jumped up just as an enormous black bear burst from the trees, heading straight for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see you guys (probably) next week B)


	10. Guts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company finds an unlikely safe-haven in the forbidding Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are slowly but surely getting all of the chapters cleaned up, but we still can't promise regular updates. However! The whole thing is written, we're not gonna leave ya'll hanging.

The attack was so swift that there was no time between when he was upright and the time that he was on the ground. One moment he stood, and the next the bear was upon him, the breath knocked from his chest and his head ringing from the impact. Moist, stale breath washed over him, the withering breath of a predator. The bear had Bilbo pinned with one, huge paw, its weight an uncomfortable pressure on his chest. His breath came quickly, his body struggling to decide whether to fight or flee.

The Dwarves shouted in alarm and Bilbo felt their heavy footfalls shaking the ground as they rushed to his defense. The bear turned to look and Bilbo seized his chance to squirm free, stopping between it and the company, his skin already half-scaled. The bear snarled at him, thick ropes of saliva dripping from its yellowed fangs. It was massive, at least as tall as Dwalin at the shoulder, with a huge humped back and curved claws that dug effortlessly into the soft loam. Still, it was a ground creature and the canopy was just high enough for Bilbo to fly—

_“Stop!”_

Gandalf’s command echoed around the meadow with terrifying force, shaking Bilbo to his very bones. A deep shadow seemed to fall over the grass and Bilbo felt the Dwarves draw short, breath held in anticipation of Gandalf’s next move. The bear, too, flinched at the sound and stepped back, its head hung low.

Thorin broke the ensuing silence. “Is this our host?” he demanded.

“No,” Gandalf said. “His name is Beorn and he is a skinchanger.”

“Friend or foe?” Dwalin asked.

After a moment’s hesitation, Gandalf said, “neither.”

Beorn snapped one last time at Bilbo before transforming into an equally tall and hirsute Man. His glare held the same ferocity as his teeth. “Since when did Gandalf the Grey keep company with a servant of the Enemy?” spat the man

“He is no longer in Sauron’s service,” Thorin said. “He is in mine.”

That declaration meant more to Bilbo that it should have and it was a struggle to keep himself from swelling with pride.

“If you want to fight him, you’ll have to fight all of us!” Ori exclaimed bravely, and the Dwarves all muttered in agreement.

“There will be no fighting in my home!” a quavery voice said. Everyone turned to see a small, bearded Man shuffling towards them, leaning heavily on a staff of burled wood. It was difficult to tell where his brown skin ended and his robes began. His demeanor and his clothing- dirty and shabby- were decieving. There was a tired power to him, the same ragged wisdom that Gandalf carried. A wizard, then. “Gandalf? You’re late! And with company; who are they?” The Man’s nose wrinkled. “You’ve brought _Dwarves_ to my woods. I’m not overly fond of Dwarves.”

“Nor am I,” Beorn rumbled.

“I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience,” Gandalf said to the small Man, “but my companions have just escaped Azog the Defiler. They are in need of food and shelter if they are to survive the complete their quest.”

“And what quest is that?” Beorn asked.

“No concern of yours,” Thorin said.

“Something that will be instrumental in ours,” Gandalf said. “Will that suffice?”

The wizard — Radagast, probably — thought about it for a moment. Then he caught sight of Bilbo and his face paled. “It’s — it’s one of _them_!” He fell back, eyes crossing in agitation as he struggled to point his staff towards him. “Gandalf, it’s a _kulkodar_!”

Bilbo cringed at the word and Beorn dropped to all fours, his fur already thickening.

“A friendly one,” Kíli objected.

“Fear not, my friend,” Gandalf said. “Master Baggins is an entirely agreeable being, whether he is Hobbit or dragon. He has atoned for the actions of his past life most thoroughly and I count him as my friend. _Look_ at him, Radagast.”

Radagast’s eyes slid back into focus and he peered at Bilbo with such intensity that he almost shrunk away. “I see you, dragon.”

“And that he means no harm to you or yours, I should hope,” Thorin said, his voice tinted with impatience.

“Yes, I…” Radagast’s vision clouded over again. “He may stay.”

“I trust your judgement, old friend,” Beorn said, “but even you can be deceived.”

“Peace, Beorn,” Gandalf said. “I’m sure you and Bilbo will get along splendidly, once you’ve worked out your differences.”

Beorn crossed him arms.

“Radagast, I think your guests are hungry,” Gandalf prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Radagast said. He clapped his hands together and spoke a command in Elvish. Then, the forest exploded with activity. Birds filled the trees, mice and hedgehogs swarmed on the ground, and Bilbo even saw several ghostly white deer watching from the dappled shade. The company stood frozen in place as Radagast’s creatures rushed back and forth between his hut and a slab of rock in the midst of the meadow, filling it with every nut, berry, and fungi imaginable. Then just as soon as they had appeared, they vanished, although some of the sparrows remained to forage at the feet of the grazing horses.

Bilbo plopped down beside the rock, careful to keep Beorn in his periphery as he examined the food. He recognized maybe half of what the animals had provided and he was understandably anxious about diving into anything from Mirkwood. Then the Dwarves dove for the fungi, and Bilbo shrugged and popped a raspberry in his mouth. It was tart and juicy and decidedly not poisoned, so he took a handful and sat back, watching the dwarves fondly.

The wizards and Beorn took their own council a fair distance away and they were finally left in peace. For once, Bilbo was not offended to be left out.

“We should make a sign for Bilbo,” Fíli suggested. “ _Nice dragon._ ”

“Would save us a lot of time,” Bofur said, “since everyone seems to know who he is.”

“Nearly as bad as Thorin,” Gloin said.

“We could try blessing him,” Oin suggested. “Mahal has forgiven many Dwarves for sins worse than his.”

Bilbo sighed. “I am truly sorry for all the fuss.”

“I’ll take the cost of your being a dragon out of your fourteenth share,” Balin said, nodding. As usual, Bilbo was unsure if he was serious.

“How far are we from Erebor?” Kíli asked.

Thorin pondered this as he nibbled on a morel. “I cannot tell our position in this forest, but I think about a month’s travel should bring us to Esgaroth.”

“A month,” Balin echoed, his gaze fixed on some faraway point.

Privately, Bilbo scarcely thought they could walk for another minute. Their beards and hair were tangled with twigs and moss, and their clothes were torn and deplorably stained with months of travel. Yet when Thorin mentioned Erebor, their postures straightened and some inner fire kindled within them, and in that moment Bilbo knew they would drag themselves home on their bloody hands and knees if they must. It touched him so deeply that he had to look askance.

“I say we eat and leave,” Dwalin said. “I don’t trust this skin-changer or the wizard.”

“It’s not natural,” Dori agreed.

“I reckon we’d last about … oh, five minutes alone in Mirkwood before something found us.” Bofur spat out a sunflower seed. “And it wouldn’t be a wizard. Might even be an Elf.”

Bifur spoke and Bofur translated, “He says he’ll go if Radagast intends for us to live on vegetables.”

“Seconded,” Kíli muttered, poking suspiciously at a blueberry with one of his arrows.

“Wizards may be mysterious and unreliable, but at the end of the day, they’re good folk,” Fíli argued. “A few days of fruit are worth Radagast’s protection.”

“Fíli is right,” Thorin said, putting a hand on his proud heir’s shoulder. “Mirkwood is no place to wander friendless.”

“How many more must know of our quest?” Balin inched closer to the stone and the company crowded closer. “Trusting Gandalf was enough of a gamble. This Radagast seems even less reputable and I believe we share the same thoughts on Beorn.”

“The wizards and their companion have business of their own,” Thorin said. “I suspect that their necromancer issue will keep them from prying into ours.”

Bilbo wiggled free of the Dwarves to ensure no one had eavesdropped. While he was certain Beorn could have listened in from Rohan, he seemed more interested in grooming the company’s horses. The wizards were still deep in discussion; Bilbo caught words like _necromancer_ and _Galadriel_ and _return_ , but nothing of importance to him or his Dwarves.

Then he heard a loud rustling from the forest, as if a great many large things were coming towards Radagast’s hut. Under the cacophony of snapping branches and torn leaves was something even more insidious: the anticipatory hiss of a voracious predator.

“ _Dwarves,_ ” they cried in the Black Speech. _“Feast!”_

“Something’s coming!” Bilbo cried as he stripped down. He transformed the moment he was free, shivering as skin became scales and teeth became fangs.

The meadow boiled with activity as creatures of all shapes and sizes fled the forest for the safety of Radagast’s hut. A thick cloud of birds and bats filled the air, and Bilbo took care not to squash on the multitude of dormice, hedgehogs, ermine, rabbits, and moles passing around his legs.

“Steady!” shouted Dwalin, and Bilbo felt rather than saw the Dwarves closing ranks around him. He hummed in satisfaction, crouching low as he prepared to leap at anything that came through the trees.

The first spiders to approach Bilbo regretted it immediately; he cooked them so swiftly that they died before their legs curled. The creatures around the unlucky scarcely shied away before redoubling their assault. Bilbo lashed out with tooth and claw, darting into the sun when he could to regain heat.

There were twenty or thirty spiders; it was impossible to accurately count with the speed at which they scuttled around the meadow. Beorn tore into them with unmatched ferocity, sometimes killing them with one swipe of his mighty claws. The spiders swarmed him briefly, but Gandalf and Glamdring came to his rescue, while Radagast beat them away from his hut.

The Dwarves were barely tall enough to see the spiders eye-to-eye; they hacked at limbs and eyes, darting under their bodies to stab at their softer underbellies. They were vocal fighters, often shouting warnings or insults at one another, or curses when something went awry.

Bilbo knew with unsettling detail each of the injuries they sustained. Fíli received a bite to the leg that Bilbo felt so viscerally he had to check to see if he had received a bite of his own. Nori twisted his ankle and Bilbo was afraid, for a moment, to put weight on it. But the Dwarves’ continuous banter was enough to reassure him that their wounds were minor, and that was what kept Bilbo fighting.

Thorin alone did not participate in the company’s games. He sliced through the spiders with grim precision, until Orcrist was black with their foul blood. Bilbo sensed nothing from him — no joy, no relief, not even concern.

Before long, the clearing was strewn with twitching spider carcasses. From what Bilbo could feel, none of the company was seriously injured. Fíli’s leg would heal and Nori’s method of walking it off seemed to be working well.

At Gandalf’s behest, the Dwarves began to haul the spiders’ bodies into the woods. Bifur wanted to burn them, and he and Radagast — with an exasperated Ori translating — were in the midst of a heated argument as to why that was not a smart idea.

“You have a strange notion of sanctuary,” Thorin told Gandalf as they examined a dead spider. “First our host insults a member of my company. Then we fight off dozens of Ungoliant’s spawn. What should we expect next?”

Gandalf poked the corpse with his staff, his craggy brow knit with concern. “I have never known Mirkwood’s spiders to be so bold. Trust me Thorin — I did not foresee this.”

“Is it this Necromancer?” Thorin asked quietly.

“Perhaps,” Gandalf said. “But that is a task for Beorn, Radagast, and myself. Erebor is a enough of a challenge for the company.”

“What threat could a human sorcerer pose to thirteen Dwarves, two wizards, a skin-changer, and a dragon?” Thorin asked. “Erebor’s borders once extended throughout Rhovanion and I will not have—”

“No, Thorin.” Gandalf smiled. “I fear that the spiders’ presence may signal a wakening evil in the East. You will do more good by slaying Smaug and securing the North. Too long has that place fallen into rot without the Durins’ strong hand to guide it.”

Thorin sighed. “I see.”

A great hand landed on Bilbo’s shoulder and his knees almost buckled.

“You did well,” Beorn rumbled.

Bilbo stepped away, unsure if Beorn’s next move would be to break his neck. “Well, I’ve defeated wights, watchers, and even a balrog. Spiders are no match for the likes of me.”

“What about a skin-changer?”

“Sorry, what?”

“We should spar, you and I,” Beorn said. “Even skilled warriors need practice.”

Bilbo’s desire to redeem himself for their initial meeting won out over self-preservation. “I believe I shall take you up on that.”

Beorn nodded. “Good. You’re a fierce creature to behold, little ferret.”

Bilbo accepted the praise bitterly. “Ferrets don’t fly.” Try though he might, he could not restrain himself from glancing longingly at the sky. “And if they did, I doubt they would look as splendid.”

“I will take your word on that,” Beorn said. “Come. We must help Radagast.”

Bilbo turned back into a dragon and was in the midst of dragging an especially juicy spider when the battle fatigue overcame him at last. He sagged to the ground, tearing off a leg to chew on as he regained his energy.

“You look content,” Nori said as he passed by.

Bilbo snapped off a joint and nodded towards where the rest of the company had gathered around the spider corpses, laughing at some previous joke. Ori chose that moment to let out a large belch, causing Fíli and Kíli to fall over with laughter.

Nori laughed. “I’m afraid we’ve tainted your good taste then, my friend.” He slipped a knife from some concealed pocket and began flipping it deftly. Bilbo watched the blade fondly, thinking on how talented each of the Dwarves were. Some concern flared up in him. What if Nori mishandled the blade and hurt himself? But the Dwarf moved with such ease that concern was quelled by pride.

 _That’s strange,_ Bilbo thought. He was often vain, for hubris was a vice all his kin shared. From time to time he’d been impressed with the talent of a particularly skilled tailor or baker in the Shire, but never had he been so _proud_ in the skills of another.

Then Dori stormed over shouting, “What do you think you’re doing? Spit that out! It’s not healthy.”

Bilbo considered him for a moment, red-faced from exertion, his hands on his hips, his meticulously braided hair out of order. Overwhelming affection flooded Bilbo, so he dropped the spider leg and edged it away with a claw.

“Make yourself useful, brother,” Dori said, dropping the gnawed and saliva-coated leg into Nori’s arms. Nori rolled his eyes but brought it over to the pile all the same.

Bilbo turned back into a hobbit and began to quest about for his clothes. He found them shoved under a rock, and mostly free of stains. He examined an especially large spot on his shirt with a critical eye. The spiders’ black blood had coated the exact center of the chest and, while a tailored jacket would have covered the blemish entirely, he no longer _had_ a tailored jacket. Nor would any of his old jackets fit him anyway, since he had lost so much weight.

He heard Thorin approaching but made no effort to put his clothes back on. This stain was worrisome and required his full attention.

“You fought well,” Thorin said.

“As did you. You’ve put Orcrist to good use,” Bilbo said. How could he have missed Thorin fighting? Laying about with Orcrist, his hair flying and beads flashing in the sun? He had looked like a Dwarf lord of legend. Bilbo could only imagine the sight of him upon a throne.

Thorin nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. He did not accept compliments gracefully, which made Bilbo more eager to pay them.

As if Thorin had read his mind, he said, “Flying over Mirkwood is dangerous.”

“I’ve stood up to worse,” Bilbo scoffed. “Besides, I need it after that battle. Who knows when the spiders will return?”

“Stay near the house,” Thorin said, “and take care. I suspect more than the Necromancer dwells here.”

Bilbo offered him a lazy salute. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

He took a few steps away, then burst into his dragon shape and leapt into the air. As he gained height, trees bent and bowed beneath his sweeping wings. Then, with one final heave, Bilbo broke free of the canopy, finally bathing in the full heat of the setting sun. He rose higher and higher, extending his wings to their full length to soak up every scrap of the sun’s golden embrace. He stopped only when the air grew cold and his breath short. For a moment he was suspended in the sky, at the odd border between earth and the heavens beneath. Then he tipped back, falling towards Mirkwood once more.

He arrested his descent just above the sun-gilded leaves and began to glide low enough to skim them with his claws. The mesmeric beat of his own wings allowed his thoughts to wander. For a time he admired his shadow, watching the rippled wave of his wings as each flap rolled like a wave from the tips of his wings down their membrane, ending at last at his tail.

Then he finally convinced himself to face reality.

Bilbo still felt the bite Fíli had sustained. His ankle still ached from where Nori had twisted his ankle. The dull throb of Bifur’s wound never ceased; like a second heartbeat, it was always with him. When in Rohan, he had felt each of the company’s hangovers as if they were his own, and even now, he knew the dispositions and locations of each and every one of them. A dragon knew when a piece of its treasure was stolen. Even the loss of a single gold coin was keenly felt.

 _Mortals!_ Why could they not have been immortal Elves? Elves he could protect from anything that might kill them. He could not protect his Dwarves against their inevitable deaths and the mere thought of that opened up a yawning chasm in Bilbo’s heart. How long did Dwarves live? Two hundred years? Three hundred? It may have been a lengthy accounting by the standards of Hobbits or Men, but to Bilbo, it would be faster than drawing a breath. Was the satisfaction and comfort of a hoard worth the inevitable pain?

He did not know the answer, nor would he have the freedom to seek it. The bond between him and the company waxed daily. He had broken away from his swords, but that had taken centuries and the understanding and patience of two very loving Hobbits. Besides, the swords had been relics from a vicious era Bilbo had struggled to forget. The Dwarves were … well, not perfect, certainly, but they meant more to him than some shiny Elvish trinkets.

He felt rather than saw when he had reached the limit of Radagast’s influence. Uncertainty and exhaustion flowed back into his body and, while Bilbo could ascribe it to his emotions, he knew it was Mirkwood’s enchantments. He banked hard over the treetops, causing branches and snap and shatter in his wake. Overhead, the sun gently glided towards the western horizon, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, even as banks of dusky clouds peeked from behind the Misty Mountains. The stars blinked into view, constellations forming dot by dot. Night swept over a sleeping land on velvet wings far larger and faster than any his own. Flying by night held no inherent danger, but Bilbo did not enjoy it. The air was often cold and unpleasant, and he would much rather sit inside by a warm fire, perhaps even with companionship. The thought turned his wings south, towards his Dwarves. Towards home. _Towards Thorin_ , his mind provided, entirely without his permission.

In much the same way that one realizes they have left the oven burning, Bilbo realized that he was in love with Thorin. For a brief moment, he captured that feeling as he might a delicate moth on a summer’s night, but his disgust quashed his wonderment. He did not know how to love, only possess, and thousands of years with hobbits had taught him that the best love was selfless. Bilbo was a dragon and that made him uniquely unfit to exhibit any generosity. Besides, dragons did not covet one jewel above another, instead valuing each for their unique qualities. What made Thorin so different?

A Dwarf prince! A fine object of his affections _he’d_ chosen. And not just any Dwarf prince, but one who had been driven from his home and made a beggar by a fire-drake. Thorin could accept and befriend Bilbo, but he was not foolish enough to think that Thorin could ever return his feelings.

Weighed down as he was by his emotions, Bilbo took longer than he had hoped. He homed in on the lights of Radagast’s home as much as the company’s pull, circling at long last around the clearing before landing clumsily near the horses.

The hut’s door flung open, a few of the more vigilant Dwarves spilling out into the night with their weapons ready and Thorin at their head. When he recognized Bilbo, his hand dropped from Orcrist’s grip. Dori pushed forward, the bundle of Bilbo’s clothes in his arms, as Bilbo changed back into his Hobbit form.

“Do you have any idea how worried we have been?” he said sternly, shoving Bilbo’s clothes into his arms. “You said you would be back by sunset, yet here you are well after nightfall! And this after ignoring Mister Gandalf’s warnings about flying over this accursed forest.”

“I was perfectly safe,” Bilbo objected. “I reckon I’m bigger than almost anything under these leaves and I doubt any of them can roast a spider from the inside out in a trice!”

“Regardless,” Thorin said, “take care not to trouble us in the future.”

Bilbo could not meet his eyes.

“There’s food inside,” Ori said, wrinkling his nose. “All sorts of _green things_. You might like them.”

“Any break from salted pork and hard bread is most welcome,” Bilbo said. “Does Radagast have a pot? Perhaps I could cook…” His hands twitched giddily at the thought.

“Peach pie!” shouted Kíli.

“Roast capon!” suggested Glóin, and soon all the Dwarves were voicing their favorite dishes — many of which, as Bilbo remembered (since dragons never forgave a slight), had been “served” at their first meeting.

“Hold on,” Bilbo groused, waving them into silence. “Let’s see if wizards keep flour first…”

And he let himself be drawn inside by his hoard, the ugly emotions roiling in his chest momentarily silenced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **V:** LOOK AT THAT! Bilbo has a crush.  
>  Thorin has been SO GAY for Bilbo for SO LONG already. I mean who wouldn't be. Bakes? Kills Balrogs? Find a man that can do both. Also I've been terrible about replying to comments and that's usually my job so I'll be getting on those old-ass comments soon, promise <3


	11. an update! (to be deleted)

It seems there haven't been updates for a while, huh? Well, you're right! You're so smart to have figured that out! You're just the best. 

I'll tell you why! Mudkippy is working hard, while I am hardly working. Her job involves bees, I think. Mine means that I am on the cold, cold continent of Antarctica doing top secret, highly classified research. So, in between the fact that I'm on a remote continent and she is training bees to ride draft horses, we haven't been able to work on this fic! But fear not. We love this fic more than we love bees and [redacted], so we will persevere against the bonds of labor and capitalism and [redacted] to bring you more words. 

But it might not be for a while. Thank you for your patience.

We love you.

-vilelithe and mudkippy

PS. We love your comments! We read them all! They give us the very life force necessary to continue. Replying to them is a bit more difficult, again because of [redacted] and bees, but we see them and greatly appreciate them, so sorry for not replying.


End file.
